Jared Millet's Blog, page 7

The Whisper: Chapter 6

I Was the Man Who Died Twice
I woke with cold pavement pressing on my cheek. I couldn’t open my eyes. My head felt like a cork about to pop. My every joint creaked if I moved the slightest muscle. My clothes were like sandpaper. My throat was a desert. The air was heavy as a stone crushing me to the face of the earth.
I moved an arm and a spike of hot steel lanced up from my elbow. Screaming broke the crust that seemed to have caked around me. My face contorted as blood began to flow. My heart –stilled for how long – started beating again. I could feel each spasm shudder through me. My lungs filled with air as if for the first time.
I rolled and pressed my palms against concrete. The ground felt like broken glass. I drew a painful breath and pushed hard against the earth. It didn’t feel like sitting up. It felt like the world rotated around me.
Somewhere a bird chirped. That was odd for October. Maybe one last straggler lingered far behind the flock, still hoping for greener pastures. Whatever it was, I was thankful. The first sound I heard was an emblem of life, not death.
Idiot. There I was again, searching for a goddamn metaphor. I opened my eyes.
Gray coalesced into the shape of the world. A thin, white line separated sky from the earth below. A cold wind ruffled my hair and blew off a layer of grit. I blinked to clear my eyes, then rubbed them when that didn’t work. Hardened sleep peeled off my lids like scabs, and a rain of tears followed. I wiped my cheeks and black grime smeared on my hands.
Where the hell was I?
There was a metal building like a silo on its side. I sat not far from it on a sea of pavement. In the distance was as sprawling concrete structure punctuated by a tower with antennas on top.
Christ, I was still at the airport. But why was it so dark, and where the hell was everyone?
Were they dead?
Was I?
I felt my chest. No holes. The same for my head. My shirt was dry, not a bit of blood. My arms felt tangled and I couldn’t figure why until I remembered the wire running from my watch to my coat pocket.
I spoke into the watch. “Hello?” My voice cracked and I coughed until something warm rose up. “Hello?” I squeaked. “Powell? Anyone? Hello?”
I reached in my pocket and pulled out the case. The ‘Record’ button was still pressed, but there was no sound of a reel spinning. The transmitter was probably dead as well. There was no way to get the thing off me without completely disrobing, though, so I’d save that for later.
First things first. I climbed to my feet and wobbled until my balance came back. My legs felt like reeds of grass that would whip over with the first strong breeze. I took a practice step to make sure I wouldn’t fall, then I took two more to make sure the first one wasn’t a fluke.
On the horizon, the sun started to rise.
What?
Was I expected to believe that after the bloodbath when Aranjuez’s plane landed, everyone left me on the airfield to sleep overnight? And that they’d cleaned the area up as if nothing had ever happened?
No. If what I remembered was real, I’d have at least three bullet holes in me. I didn’t, so it must have been what… a hallucination? Maybe I really was crazy. The last few days would make a whole lot more sense that way.
So was it plausible that I’d hallucinated being targeted by some dark, power-mad conspiracy? Sure. That I’d dreamed about being interrogated by the FBI? Why not. That I’d wandered all the way to Baltimore, had some kind of breakdown, and slept overnight on the tarmac at the airport?
It couldn’t be that simple. The wire I was wearing was real, so at least the FBI part had happened. Whatever else I’d imagined, I felt like a sane man at the moment. Sane men could analyze their situation and take action, so that seemed like the best place to start.
The hangar was locked. No surprise there. It had to be about 6:00 a.m., give or take. The public terminal would be gearing up for the day’s traffic, but a private hangar wouldn’t open until needed. I looked for a gate in the fence. There was one, but it was padlocked. Had I felt stronger, I would have tried climbing over, but in my current state I would only fall on my ass.
There was nothing for it but to walk the length of the fence back to the main airport. If I was lucky, someone in a cart would spot me and give me a ride. If I was extremely lucky, it would be someone who didn’t speak English and wouldn’t ask questions.
It must have taken half an hour to skirt the perimeter, but it felt even longer. A straight line across the airfield would have been suicidal. Two large airliners passed low overhead as I crossed the edge of the landing zone. The frosted grass made a satisfying crunch as I walked. Less pleasant was the ten foot ditch I had to climb down and back up.
Once I reached the terminal, I kept in the shadows under overhangs, away from the gates currently in use as much as I could. Traffic had already started for the day, with airport personnel running back and forth. I kept my head down and if anyone noticed I was out of place they didn’t say anything.
Eventually I came to an open gate disgorging passengers across the tarmac toward a Douglas DC-7. I pushed against the tide of morning travelers and emerged into the warmth of the airport proper. The stewardess at the gate gave me a confused look, then smiled at the next passenger preparing to board. There were many people milling inside the airport, waiting for early morning flights, so I lost myself in the crowd and desperately looked for a coffee stand.
I hoped I had some money. Please, God, I thought, let me have some money.
There was a single dollar bill in my wallet. The vendor gave me coffee, a paper, and 90 cents change. I found a vacant bench on which to collect myself. The newspaper was a good anchor from which to do that. The front page had stories about the Pioneer 1 launch and the debate among the D.C. Bar Association on whether to accept blacks as member attorneys. I sipped the coffee and remembered that they were supposed to have reached a decision on that by now.
An inscription at the top of the page said Tuesday, October 14, 1958.
That was today? No, that was yesterday, the day Aranjuez was supposed to land. I went back to the coffee vendor.
“Hey, bud,” I said, “you got today’s paper yet?”
“That’s it in your hand.”
“This is Tuesday’s.”
“This is Tuesday. What, did you have some kind of bender last night?”
I almost argued with him, but how could someone make so simple a mistake? I shuffled away and looked for someone else to ask.
“Say, mister,” I said to a weary businessman smoking a cigarette. “You know what day it is?”
“The fourteenth, I think.”
“But this is Wednesday, right?”
“Is it?” He rubbed his temple as if my questions made his head hurt. “No, it’s Tuesday.”
I wandered away in a daze. Clearly I wasn’t as sane as I thought. I walked down the hall until I found one of the ticket counters and stood in line before getting my turn at the desk. The paper was still rolled up under my arm, and I still had my coffee in my hand.
“I’m sorry to bother you, miss,” I said to the ticket lady, “but could you tell me what day it is?”
“Tuesday the 14th,” she said with too bright a smile for seven o’clock. “Where can I book you for?”
“Thanks, I don’t need a booking.” One more crazy thought crossed my mind. “I’m a reporter for The Washington Street. Do you know anything about a private flight coming in today from San Magin?”
“Ooh, yeah, I heard about that,” she said. “It’s coming in around noon, I think.”
“Thank you,” I said. I walked calmly away, found the nearest men’s room, and staggered into a stall.
It was Tuesday morning. The landing wasn’t but a few hours away. What had I had, some kind of premonition? Then how was I already here?
Whatever it was, if the attack I remembered was real, then it had yet to happen. I still had time to stop it. Five hours to go, and I had time to save them all.
***
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The first thing I did was call the Street. All the way to Washington, I had to call collect. When the operator put me through, someone I didn’t recognize picked up.
“Washington Post, may I help you?”
“I have a collect call from Allan Jones, will you accept the charges?”
I was already trying to cut her off; the stupid broad had dialed the wrong number.
“No, I’m sorry, we don’t accept collect calls,” said the receptionist before she hung up.
“I’m sorry, sir, but your call was not accepted,” said the operator.
“You dialed it wrong, listen again.” I gave her the number a second time, and she insisted it was the one she’d put through. At my urging, she tried it a second time, this time as a person-to-person call to George Farnsworth.
The same Postreceptionist answered and curtly informed us that the Post didn’t have any employees by that name, and perhaps I should contact the Street instead. I found myself shouting down the line that I had called the Street, but the operator cut me off.
“I’m sorry, sir, but it seems you have the wrong number. Shall I put you through to directory assistance?”
I hung up, having wasted some of my limited change. Then I dropped another dime in and dialed the operator back, hoping I’d get someone I hadn’t already annoyed. This time I asked them to put me through to the FBI. There was no reason to think Agent Powell would be in his office, but I was sure that someone could reach him.
This time, thank God, I got the right number. I explained to the FBI switchboard operator who I was, that I was working on a case with Agent Powell, and that I needed to speak with him urgently. I would have been overjoyed just to leave a message, but the switchboard lady transferred me directly to his desk.
“Hello?”
“Powell, listen. This is Allan Jones. There’s no time to explain, but I’m calling from Friendship International Airport. The assassination is going down today, repeat, today. And it’s not just Bordani’s hit men; I think they’re a smokescreen. It’s the people behind Bordani, and they’ve got military hardware. They’re not just going to kill Aranjuez, they’re going to open fire on the whole crowd.”
“What? Who is this? Did you say this was Allan Jones?”
The voice was definitely not Powell’s.
“Um,” I said slowly. “That’s right. I was calling for Special Agent Powell. Was I connected to the wrong desk?”
“Allan Jones from The Washington Street?” The voice sounded achingly familiar. “Did you say Friendship International? What’s this about an assassination?”
I didn’t know where to start. A voice in the back of my head screamed for me to hang up, but I didn’t dare, not with so much at stake.
“Um,” I said again. “To whom am I speaking?”
“What, you don’t know? I’m hurt. This is Ray Tyler at the NSA. Who did you think you were calling?”
Shit. On. Me. How in the hell did I get transferred to the NSA? And to that rat bastard Tyler of all people? But time was running out.
“Uh, I was calling Special Agent Powell at the FBI.”
“Buck Powell? He’s that negro agent in the D.C. office, right? Well, look, you better tell me what’s going on.”
“I don’t know, I was trying—”
“Son, spill it or you won’t even see a judge on your way to the hell I’ll send you.”
I spilled. I didn’t mention my vision of the future or whatever it was; I just put it down to a ‘tip’ from an anonymous informant. I told him about the hit, about Bordani’s thugs, and about the well-armed mercenaries who were the real threat. I don’t know how much he believed, but at least he listened.
“Jones,” he said, “I want you to stay where you are. I’m going to have the Baltimore P.D. pick you up and put you in protective custody until I get out there.”
“What about the hit squad?”
“Don’t you worry about that. I’ll have it covered, and I’ll call your friend Powell too. Right now you’re a material witness and I want you somewhere bulletproof. Got it?”
I got it, and promised to wait by the phone so the cops could find me, but I didn’t feel any better. An itch ran up and down my spine. I didn’t like that no one I trusted knew where I was. I could try Farnsworth again, I could try to reach Powell, but something was redirecting all my calls. Was this more of JANUS’s weird technology? If so, then they were on to me and I was already good as dead. But damn it, I had to let someone else know what was going down.
I called Directory Assistance and asked for the number for Roxy Brandt. It was early enough that I might still catch her at home. I was half afraid that my call would get directed to a Chinese laundromat, so imagine my surprise when my sweet, little bubblegum-popping angel picked up on the third ring.
“Roxy, it’s Allan.”
“Allan!” she said. “I told you to call yesterday.”
“I know, sorry. I got pulled in by the FBI.”
“The who? Sweetie, what’s going on?”
“No time to explain. I’m here in Baltimore, at the airport. I need you to make some calls for me. I can’t seem to get through to anyone.”
“Sure, just…” There were some grunts on the line as if she was rearranging something with one hand while holding the phone with the other. “…just let me get something to… Okay, go.”
“I need you to call Farnsworth and tell him where I am. Tell him I’ve already talked to the NSA and they’re about to take me in. Then I need you to call the FBI and have them send a warning to Special Agent Powell. That’s P – O – W –”
“I know how to spell Powell. Jeeze Louise, what’s happening out there?”
“The hit on Aranjuez?” I covered my mouth and the receiver so no one else would hear. “It’s today. And it’s going to be big. They’re not just gunning for the target, they’re going to shoot everyone who’s there to meet him. Leslie gets shot, I get shot, everybody. I’ve already seen it.”
“Leslie gets shot? What are you talking about ‘you’ve already seen it’?”
“I don’t know, I can’t explain. It’s like I’ve seen the future. Or more like I’m living a day over again.” I sobbed on that last sentence. It just burst out, taking me completely off guard. “I think I’m about to crack up.”
“Allan? It’s okay. Calm down. You’re at the airport in Baltimore? I’m coming out there to get you.”
“What? No. No, I need you to make those calls. Tell Powell what I said. He’s got to stop this. Tell him it’s not Bordani, it’s JANUS. J – A – N – U – S, you got that?” I saw two police officers heading my way. “I’ve got to go. The cops are here. You’re a life saver, sweetheart.”
“Allan?” she said. “Allan, no, wait.”
I didn’t hear the rest. I hung up and faced the cops.
“You Jones?” the first one said. I nodded. “Turn around, please.”
I obeyed without thinking. The second cop shoved me face first against the wall, pinned my arms, and cuffed me.
“Guys, what gives!” They yanked me away from the wall so fast I almost fell over. “I’ll come along, you don’t need to do this.”
“Shut up,” said cop #1. “You’re under arrest. Give us any trouble and you’ll wish you hadn’t.”
“I’m not causing trouble. Call Agent Tyler.”
The second one kicked my legs out from under me. I landed hard on the case in my jacket and gasped as my breath escaped. A crowd was starting to back away and stare.
“What’s this?” the second cop said, pulling back my sleeve to expose the wire trailing out of my watch. “Spy equipment? Looks like we caught us a commie.”
I looked that moron in the eye and growled. “I’m an informant for the FBI, dimrod.”
“That’s not what we heard,” said cop #1. “Now shut up and come along.”
***
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They left me in a holding cell for hours. I didn’t even know airports had holding cells. The room looked like a public shower that someone had forgotten to install plumbing in. Thank God I didn’t need to pee. From the way those police goons had acted, they’d have probably kneecapped me as soon as letting me go to the bathroom. Thanks to my “spy equipment,” they’d stripped me down to my skivvies to search for any other hardware I might have, then acted like they were doing a favor by giving my clothes back.
I’d no idea what time it was when they finally came for me. It was a different cop this time who led me through the airport’s security office to a small room with a table and a stool. I could imagine this room being used by a customs agent sorting through an unwelcome visitor’s luggage. My hands were cuffed behind me, so I wouldn’t have much of a chance for mischief. I sat on the stool and waited.
Minutes later Agent Tyler came in, followed by the cop who’d escorted me. Tyler stifled a chuckle, but he still wore that same sly smile he’d had when first we met.
“Lousy day, huh?” he said.
I didn’t answer. Tyler pulled an envelope out of his pocket, then showed me the tiny reel of tape inside.
“That was some nice equipment you were carrying. I can’t wait to hear what’s on this.”
A wild hope sprung into my mind. What if Tyler wasn’t one of the bad guys? What if he was just a jerk? He’d still want to do the right thing, if only for advancement in the NSA.
“Can we play it here?” I said. “Does anyone have a tape machine? I’m serious. I want you to hear that.”
His interest piqued. “What’s on it?”
If I was crazy, nothing. If I wasn’t, that tape was salvation.
“A live recording of the attack on President Aranjuez. The attack that’s going to happen at noon today.”
“You’re not making sense.”
“I know. That’s why I want you to hear it.”
Tyler was silent for a moment, long enough that I knew I’d set the hook. He turned to the policeman.
“See if you can find a player. If customs doesn’t have one, the control tower will.” When the cop left, Tyler pinched his nose in thought. “Okay, Jones, I’ll bite. Who do you think is after… who did you say it was?”
“Diego Aranjuez. He’s landing today at a private hangar on the other side of the airport. The group that’s after him is called JANUS. I think they’re tied up with a bunch of offshore banks that Aranjuez may have cheesed off.”
Tyler’s eye twitched. “What the hell do you know about JANUS?”
Oh, crap. Was he in with them?
“That’s just what an informant told me.”
“Some informant. JANUS is classified Top Secret above even my level.”
“Then who are they?”
“If I knew for sure, I’d probably have to kill you.” He looked around as if he could spot a listening device with a cursory glance. “Listen, I’ve only heard rumors, but I gather they’re some kind of big money group that finances operations that the intelligence community wants kept off the books.”
My stomach seemed to shrink in on itself. “And why are you telling me this?”
Tyler rubbed his eyes.
“Because if JANUS is real and you’ve been throwing their name around, then you’re a walking dead man and so is anyone you’ve talked to. If you’ve kept your mouth shut, and you keep doing so, then you might at least keep the people you like from getting whacked.” He shook his head. “I’ll deny this conversation, of course. Don’t print this in your fucking magazine or I’ll be on the hit list too.”
“You’re shitting me,” I said. “They’re that scary?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never heard of them, and I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about. Get it?”
I gulped.
The policeman came back in with a small reel-to-reel. Tyler laced the tape across the head and played the recording.
I can’t even describe how bizarre it was to listen to events that I’d doubted even took place. And yet here it was: absolute proof that what I’d lived through wasn’t a dream or delusion. The feeling of vindication made me dizzy, but a darker seed took root. These events had yet to take place. For all I knew, my younger self was right this very moment arriving at the airfield, on his way to a rendezvous with a bullet.
I had traveled back in time. I had traveled back in god damn time. The Whisper had said that if he revealed his secrets it would shatter what I knew about the world. On that note, he’d been straight up telling the truth.Before he shot me in the head.
I narrated enough so that Tyler would know who was speaking on the tape. The roar of the arriving plane drowned a good chunk of it. Then came the screech of my own voice shouting into the microphone that the attack was about to begin.
The rest was over in seconds. I heard myself scream when the Secret Service agent died; I didn’t remember that. I heard myself shout Leslie’s name. Then came two loud gunshots at point blank, followed by a gasping wheeze. My chest actually tightened when I heard those blasts for the second time. Then one last bang, and I was finished.
The tape continued. It hadn’t stopped recording when I was shot, but that last crack of gunfire brought all the action to a halt. Tyler and I both leaned in to listen for whatever happened next, but there was nothing. No more gunshots, no more shouts, no sound of survivors scrabbling to safety. Just a sibilant hiss like wind through a narrow passage. We listened for several minutes until it was clear there was nothing more.
“Do you mind taking me out of these cuffs?” I finally said.
Tyler jumped, startled, then waved for the officer to free my wrists. After he’d done it, Tyler nodded for the man to leave the room.
“Last Friday,” I said, “why were you interested in Hugo Harvey, and why’d you come looking for me?”
“Orders. I got word from on high that Harvey was a person of interest and that you were a known associate. I was told to investigate your connection under the assumption that you were both involved with criminal and possibly foreign interests.”
“It had to be JANUS.”
Tyler pointed at my mouth to remind me not to say that word. “Whatever orders I received, they never covered this.”
“Did you call Agent Powell?”
He shook his head. “I left a message. What time does the plane land?”
“Noon, I think.”
He checked his watch. “Then we need to run.”
***
We had a car in moments, but wasted agonizing time getting out of the airport parking lot. A second patrol car followed us with his lights and siren blaring, and I cursed the idiot driver under my breath. I hardly thought that alerting the assassins to our presence with an airport-wide broadcast was the best way to go.
We bounced down the dirt track around the edge of the airfield at what felt like 80 miles per hour, though when I looked over our driver’s shoulder between bone rattling jolts, the speedometer claimed we were only going 30. I shouted for the man to go faster, but the roar of a low-flying three-prop drowned me out.
Aranjuez’s plane had arrived. My throat felt as dry as it had when I woke and nausea welled up inside it. Maybe this was good, I tried to tell myself. It would take the plane several minutes to taxi to the hangar, and we were already nearly there.
But a black sedan sat across our path, and four men in dark suits waved for us to halt. They were dressed like Secret Service, and all I knew they were. Still, I cowered in the back seat as low as I could without trying to be obvious I was hiding. Tyler rolled down his window and held out his NSA credentials.
“We need to get through,” he said. “There’s a threat against President Aranjuez.”
“We’re aware of that, sir,” said the agent. “The situation is in hand, but I can’t let you pass.”
“It’s not in hand,” I said. “It’s bigger than you think. We have information that has to get to Special Agent Powell.”
The agent frowned. He waved to one of his companions for a Walkie Talkie and pressed the button to speak.
“Station One, this is Five, over.”
The answer was a screeching blast of static. The agent shook the transmitter, tried again, and met the same response.
“Someone’s jamming your gear,” said Tyler. “You’ve got to let us through.”
“Come on,” the agent said, then he ordered his own men into their car and led the way.
How much time had we wasted? The plane was almost to the hangar. How long would it take to alert the FBI? Would there be time for them to act?
I never saw the grenade. In fact, I’m just assuming that’s what it was. All I saw was that the ground beneath the car in front exploded, flipping the vehicle sideways and blowing shredded metal everywhere.
Our driver cursed and swerved hard. We toppled into a rut that lurched our car skyward, then yanked it back down. My head hit the roof, then my face hit the back of the seat in front of me. Tyler and the driver both flew forward, the driver into the wheel and Tyler head first into the windshield. It shattered but didn’t break. Tyler slumped, limp as a corpse, and the car slid to a halt.
Until the other cop car slammed us from behind. I hit the seat in front of me sideways, and the car spun round one-eighty. Glass filled the air like rain.
In the heat of a moment, time can slow down. I’ve felt it happen myself once or twice. But never like this.
Splintered glass poured from the shattered window gently enough for me to watch each shard fracture into a dozen smaller pieces. I ducked out of the way – then realized I had outrun them. Tiny glass nuggets careened through the car like rolling pool balls. I swept through the air with my arm and deflected a wave that had been heading for my face. Tinkling droplets tumbled back toward their brethren in a hundred delicate collisions.
The world had gone quiet, the only sound a distant, low rumble. The car was still spinning, sliding with the impact, but so slowly I could barely feel it. I carefully opened the door and stepped out onto the grass.
Everything around me was easing to a halt. The Secret Service car hung suspended in the air, inverted, the smoke from the explosion frozen in still-frame. The face of the driver who hit us had hardened, unblinking, in panic and surprise. Pieces of debris drifted like dandelions.
I breathed in and out. I flexed my fingers. Everything still worked. Whatever had stopped the rest of the world hadn’t stopped me.
First things first.
I dragged Tyler and the cop who’d driven us out of the car. Both looked to be in bad shape. I pulled them through the air like Macy’s Day balloons. Without time, they didn’t fall. I lay them on the ground a safe distance from the wreck and went back for the Secret Service men. The agent in the passenger seat had wounds he would never survive, but I was able to rescue the others. The cop who’d rear-ended us was wearing a seatbelt. I had faith he’d be all right without my divine intervention.
I jogged toward the hangar.
I arrived with the scene frozen mid-carnage. The crowd had already scattered when whatever happened to me took effect. Given time to look around, I could even see bullets crawling to their targets. I tried to grab one in my hand but it burned, so I took off my shoe and batted it skyward with the heel. I did this with several bullets I found, then traced them backward to their source.
The assassin lay flat on the roof of a tool shed next to the hangar. All I could see was his rifle, just like the one of the killer in my apartment. There was no way I could climb to dislodge him, so I searched for something heavy to throw. I launched a loose brick and a pair of fist sized stones his way, but they slowed to a crawl shortly after leaving my hand. I just had to hope at least one would connect once they made it all the way up.
I waded back through the crowd, deflected several more bullets, and weaved around panicked businessmen until I came to the center of the conflagration.
It was too late to save Leslie. He was already on the ground, blood pooled around him. It was too late to save myself. I saw myself kneeling, two red holes through the back of my suit. A shadowed figure stood over my past self’s form and held a gun to his – my – head.
I ran. If only I could stop the final shot. It was only five paces. Or was it six. Or seven. Or eight?
Space stretched away from me. My killer receded in the distance without moving. The universe was a tunnel around me, with my past self and murderer as the light at the end.
The Whisper turned his translucent face, and I could feel him staring right at me as he blew my earlier self’s brains out.
Time snapped like a rubber band. I froze suspended and the world moved as lightning around me. The living became blurs of gray while the dead remained as they were. Streaks the color of police lights swarmed around the edge of my vision. Bodies grew outlines of chalk, then vanished one by one, leaving children’s yellow traces and splatters of brown to mark their passing. At some point, seconds later, the airplane rolled away. The blurs of people disappeared. Comets of airplane trails streaked across the sky. The sun melted into the horizon.
I fell forward, struck pavement, and howled. It was night. I was alone. I was alive. And once again, I was dead.
To Be Continued
***
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***

Table of Contents
The Whisper © 2013 Jared Millet
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The Whisper: Chapter 5

A Wire Act
The interrogation room surprised me. For one, it was well lit. I’d expected some dark chamber with a single light bulb, probably in the basement, with shadowy figures taking turns punching me in the jaw. Instead, this looked more like Farnsworth’s office if all his furniture had been replaced with an old table and wood chairs. Hell, there was even a window with a view across E Street.
My hands were cuffed, and the agent watching me kindly suggested I keep them on the table. They’d taken my hat and coat, along with my wallet, that money order from Burke, Hugo’s tape, the Whisper’s gun, and for some damn reason my watch. The cold in the room helped me not to sweat, but it did make it pretty hard not to shiver. Although I didn’t feel I’d done anything wrong, I still tried to decide what they were going to charge me with first. I didn’t plan to lie when they questioned me, but I wasn’t sure how much truth it was safe to spill. Not enough and they’d hold me forever. Too much to the wrong person and it might get me killed. The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, if I told it to someone who hadn’t seen it for himself, would get me shipped off in a tight white jacket.
Special Agent Powell opened the door. He relieved the agent on duty, but two other official looking men followed inside and took spots along the far wall. He didn’t introduce them. Agent Powell sat down.
“I’d like to help you out, Mr. Jones. You’re in kind of a tough situation.”
“Did you listen to the tape?” I said.
“I did. It clarifies your relationship with the deceased somewhat. But I have to ask why you didn’t take this matter to the police.”
I would have thought that a black man in America, even one in a position of authority, would understand why someone wouldn’t trust the cops. Did I really have to spell it out?
“We… I received this tape moments after the NSA raided my workplace, in particular my desk. They were asking about Hugo Harvey before I even knew what was going on with him. This was minutes after I’d just been shot at while trying to meet with Harvey, and somehow these NSA goons seemed to already know that he was dead. Are you getting the picture?”
“I’m getting a picture. Are you accusing the NSA of murder?” He sounded amused.
That was too strong a line to draw, and it wouldn’t help my case if I lead with wild speculations and conspiracies.
“No. It just seemed suspicious. I decided to investigate on my own for a few days. We still have time to protect Aranjuez.”
“Your concern is noted,” said Powell. “Let’s talk about Hugo Harvey.”
“Where did you find him?”
“Mr. Jones,” said Powell, irritation creeping in. “This might be hard for a reporter to accept, but in this interview I’ll be asking the questions.”
“Sorry.”
“For the record, please describe your relationship with Mr. Harvey.”
I did. This was safe ground, if sordid and paved with tabloid headlines. I described Harvey’s work as a lawyer for Hollywood starlets in trouble and his knack for passing along spicy dirt to scandal mongers like myself. I described the first phone call I had with Harvey on Friday, waiting around for the second, and finally our arrangement for a rendezvous in the suburbs.
“And did you meet with Mr. Harvey as planned?”
Here it goes. “No.”
“Why not?”
“I was walking toward the bar where we were supposed to meet and someone started shooting at me.”
“Really?” said Powell.
“Yeah, I drove off and the bastards kept after me. Take a look at my car if you don’t believe me. If you can find out where the NSA has it impounded.”
“So you’re shot at, you lead these assailants on a chase, and then you end up back at your office building where the NSA is waiting for you. Is that correct?”
“That’s the short version.”
“So tell me this, Mr. Jones. When you arrived at your office and spoke with the NSA, how did you know that Mr. Harvey was dead?”
Uh. Oops. I took too long to answer. It was obvious I was taking too long to answer. Even the goddamn chair could probably tell. Finally I mumbled my way off the deep end.
“I was told.”
Powell waited long enough to make me squirm.
“By whom?”
“By the person who warned me I was about to get shot.”
Powell leaned forward, again waiting before asking the next question.
“And this person is… who?”
“An informant.”
“Jones.”
“I don’t know, okay. This person comes out of nowhere, saves my ass from getting plugged, jumps in the car with me, and shoots up the bad guys while I drive back to D.C.”
“And you don’t feel you should have mentioned this earlier.”
No, not really. “Look, I don’t know this person. They just helped me out a couple times.”
“A couple times? You’d seen them before?”
“No, after. When my apartment got shot up.”
“So you’ve got a guardian angel now.”
“See? This is why I didn’t mention it. Because you’d think I’m lying.”
“I didn’t say you were lying.” He pulled a scratch pad out of his pocket and a pen. “If you don’t have a name, what does this person look like?”
Once again, I took too long to answer. “I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know? C’mon, help me out. Short, tall, light, dark, young, old, blond, brunette. What?”
I shrugged. “About my height, maybe? Wears a white suit, black gloves. Kind of a bandolier thing across his chest. Nice hat.”
“Okay. And his face?”
I laughed.
“What?”
Just go ahead and call the looney wagon. “He wore a mask.”
Powell looked dead in my eye. “A mask.”
“Yep.”
The pause stretched out. At last Powell spoke.
“Like Batman?”
One of the others in the room snickered. What the hell. I was committed.
“No, it was over the whole face. Big goggles over the eyes, and he had some kind of breather thing over his mouth.”
“Like a gasmask, then.”
“No. Well, yes. But no.”
Powell pushed away his notepad. “Jones, are you fucking with me or what?”
“I’m serious. I wouldn’t make this shit up. If I was making it up, I’d make up something better. People have tried to kill me twice in three days. That’s a fact. Look at my car. Look at my apartment. Each time, this guy in a mask jumps out and rescues me. And I don’t have the first idea why, except that it’s got something to do with Hugo and this Aranjuez thing.”
“Do your coworkers know about the man in the mask?”
“No.”
“Why didn’t you tell them?”
“Why do you think?”
I could hear too much exasperation in my voice. I needed to calm down. I needed some water. I needed a smoke. I think Powell sensed this and let me settle for a moment before pressing on.
“Let’s talk about some of the stuff you had when you came in. How about this money order?”
“A payoff from Bordani’s men.”
“Bordani who?”
“He’s one of the men on the tape.”
“What is he paying you to do?”
“Leave town.”
“You didn’t leave town.”
“I didn’t cash the check.”
“What about the gun?”
“The Whisper gave it to me.”
“The Whisper?”
His face broke into a grin, and I sank further down in my chair.
“That’s what the mystery man told me to call him.”
“What kind of gun is that, exactly?”
“He called it a Glock. I don’t know where it came from.”
“Neither do I, and I know my guns. Makes me almost want to believe half of what you’re telling me. No way someone as broke as you should be carrying hardware like that.”
“Look, do you seriously believe I had something to do with Harvey’s death?”
“With killing him? No. But are you involved? You’ve already admitted that. Withholding information? I’ll have your ass in jail in five minutes, you give me half an excuse.”
“Is that what you want?”
“What I want is to find out who’s going around murdering people and burning down apartment buildings. And yes, if I can prevent the assassination of a foreign dignitary on American soil, I’ll take that too. What about you, Mr. Jones? You’re running around like a half-assed Sam Spade. What’s in it for you? What do you want?”
“Me? Simple.” I sat up, inched forward, and laid my hands on the table. “I want the story.”
Powell sized me up one last time. “You willing to play ball?”
I smiled. “As long as I get my byline.”
“It’ll be dangerous,” he said. “You know where we found your friend Harvey?”
“No, that’s why I asked.”
“He was in the trunk of a car that ran off the road on U.S. 29 in Arlington. Everyone in the car had been shot to death. It looked like whoever did it was inside the car with them. This is real, Jones.”
“I know it is. I’m already in it up to the neck.”
He nodded. “I’ll be right back. You take it easy for a minute.”
He stood and motioned for the other two men to follow. No one bothered to uncuff me. When they closed the door, leaving me alone for the first time, I settled in and prepared for a long wait.
“At last,” said the Whisper. “I didn’t think they were ever going to leave.”
***
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“Jesus Harold Christ,” I said. “How long have you been here?”
“Long enough.” His voice floated around the room, but he didn’t show himself. “I had to grab your gun first. It’s a really bad idea to leave off-era tech like that lying around, even if it did stay locked up. Same for you. Are you ready to go?”
“Go where?”
“God, you’re dense. I’m springin’ you, baby. This is a jail break.” With that, a black glove materialized for just long enough to grab the chain between my cuffs, pull them through my wrists, and drop them on the table.
I rubbed my wrists. I could slip out of here; with the Whisper’s help it would be easy. I assumed he’d brought me a breather. If we could pass between the floors of my apartment, we could waltz out the front door of the FBI and no one would know the difference until they came looking for me.
And that’s when things would fall apart.
“Thanks, but no. I think I’ll stick around.”
“You’ll what? Are you crazy?”
No, for once I was thinking straight. “I haven’t done anything seriously wrong. If I cooperate, the FBI can save Aranjuez and I can write my story in peace. If I run away in the middle of an interrogation, I’ll shoot to number one on the Most Wanted list. I don’t see any advantage in that.”
“How about staying alive?” A chair on the other side of the table shifted back. I presume the Whisper sat down. “Bordani has to know you’re spilling your guts. JANUS definitely knows. They’ve already shown they’re willing to stick their necks out to stop you, and there’s no protection the FBI can offer that JANUS can’t break.”
“You make it out like they’re invincible.”
“From your point of view, they may as well be.”
“I don’t buy it,” I said. “They’re rich, they’re powerful, they’ve got all kind of fancy science, but they’re just a conspiracy. A conspiracy needs to be secret or it loses its power, and that secrecy is what I can take away. But this is the way to do it – working with the Feds, putting a story in the Street, even letting Young take top billing because of her credibility. That’s why they’re scared of me.”
“You’re so full of yourself.” The Whisper drummed invisible fingers on the table. “Look, you’ve scared them a little. You’ve affected one of their schemes, and that doesn’t happen. But they’ve already taken steps to erase you and you can’t even see it.”
“Like what?”
There was silence for a moment.
“I can’t say.”
“God damn it!”
“I’m serious, Allan. There are secrets I can’t tell you. If I did, it would shatter everything you believe about the world.”
“Now who’s full of themselves?” I thought hard for a moment, then said, “Get out.”
“What?”
“Get out. Thanks for saving my life, but if you’re not going to expose your JANUS friends then this is where we split.”
“You’re making a mistake.”
“Maybe so. But if I was going on the run, I’d have taken Bordani’s money. Now get out. You’ll spook the Feds.”
It was quiet for long enough that I thought the Whisper had gone.
“Take care of yourself, Allan. I hope you’re right and I’m not.”
I almost responded, but Agent Powell came back in the room.
“Okay, Jones, we’ve worked out how we want to handle this. If you’re straight about playing along with us, we’ve got a little mission for you tomorrow at the… Who the hell let you out of your cuffs?”
***
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I met Tim Leslie on the sidewalk in front of the Street on Tuesday morning.  Our new owner, Canton Marlston, had arranged a driver to take us to Friendship International. “Arranged a driver” is rich person talk for “called a cab.” I wore a clean suit that the FBI had provided. They’d put me up the night before in a safe house, prepped me for the day’s assignment, and dropped me off at work like my mom delivered me to school when I was nine.
Leslie had also dressed up, though not to the nines. The camera slung around his neck and the satchel full of extra film would have ruined his look anyway. He waited for me to slide into the cab before folding his long legs in beside me.
“You know,” he said, “instead of staying at whatever flop house you’re living in now, I’m sure Uncle Pepe could find you a spare room somewhere.”
I shook my head and put a finger to my lips. Now was not a good time for Leslie to start blabbing about his questionable connections. I pointed to my watch, then stretched out my arm so he could see the wire extending up my sleeve. Tim made an ‘O’ with his mouth, then shut it for a moment.
“So,” he finally said, “how about them Redskins?”
The wire went up my arm, across my shoulders, and down my right side to a compact case harnessed into my coat. The case held a miniature tape recorder which I could start with the press of a button. It also included a short-range radio transmitter that would run as long as it had power. The Feds had turned it on just before they dropped me off. The schedule was so tight that the Feds wouldn’t have had time to get one of their own undercover. Since I already seemed to be a lightning rod, they were using me as bait.
I was to turn the recorder on the moment there was anything of note. If necessary, I could alert the FBI through the watch, which they would be listening to. They assured me that when I reached the airport they would already have agents there, though I wouldn’t see them. Should someone make a move on Aranjuez, they would hopefully be on the scene in seconds.
The cabbie jabbered with Leslie about the Redskins all the way to Baltimore. I watched trees, billboards, and tidy new subdivisions fly by. The ride took about an hour. We bypassed the public terminal and rode a dirt track around the airfield to a far, private hanger.
When we arrived, Canton and Lane were already there, dressed as if for a luncheon at a country club. The Posthad sent a couple of reporters, as had the Baltimore press, but they all looked like they’d pulled the short straw for this assignment. Among the other attendees, I counted eight well-dressed security men, their profession evidenced by the size of their necks and the bulges of guns holstered under their shoulders. I wondered whose payroll they were on – the airport’s, the State Department’s, or Marlston’s.
Or Bordani’s?
I turned on the recorder as I got out of the cab.
“Jones,” said Marlston. “I hope you slept well?”
“Like a kitten.” I wondered if anyone knew I’d been a guest of the FBI. I couldn’t imagine that my absence had gone unnoticed.
“We’re expecting two congressmen from the Foreign Relations Subcommittee in a few minutes. Abberline and Crawthorn. I think you know Mr. Crawthorn, is that right?”
Now how in the Sam Hill would he have heard about that? “By reputation only,” I said.
“Well, let’s not get distracted, shall we? Aranjuez is the focus here, not anyone else.”
Yes, Mom. Marlston was talking like he was editor now, not Farnsworth, and it pissed me the hell off.
“There’s no story on Crawthorn I’m interested in writing.”
Marlston nodded his approval, then moved on to flog someone else with his arrogance. Lane grimaced behind his back, then came close to whisper in my ear.
“Don’t let him get to you, sweetie. He’s excited, that’s all, and when he’s excited he likes to feel in charge.”
“Sounds like he needs to get a job.”
Lane laughed out loud. “Wouldn’t that be a hoot.”
Leslie joined our cabal as he unscrewed his lenscap. “Here we go, ladies and gents. V.I.P.s at twelve o’clock.”
Three black sedans pulled up to the curb. The first two flew the old Stars and Stripes from flag poles on the hood. The third car flew flags of red, yellow, and green, the colors of San Magin. Dark suited men with matching dark hats – they could only be Secret Service – stepped out of each vehicle and held doors for the two congressmen.
Politicians have never impressed me. To a man they’ve always seemed old, wrinkled, vacuous, and about twenty years behind the times. These two were no different. Abberline looked like Northern Old Money. He wore this three-piece as if he’d been born in it, and his hands looked empty without a cigar and a roll of bank notes. Crawthorn, on the other hand, was the South. He wore a brown suit, red tie, and walked with a slight stoop like a farmer all dressed up for church. A scowl of denied entitlement never left his face; it was part of what had endeared him to me so much.
Click click clickwent Leslie’s camera as he took his first shots of the day.  The crowd pulled back to form a corridor for the officials, preceded by their contingent of bodyguards. The mysterious security men who were already there melted into the background but not out of sight. I suppressed an urge to talk into my watch like Dick Tracy and give the Feds a running commentary.
The congressmen shook some hands as they walked around. If I had to guess, I’d say most of those present were from the business community: bankers, investors, maybe some real estate developers looking to stake a claim on fresh Caribbean turf. Even though I wasn’t on his case anymore, I kept an eye on Crawthorn to see who he was gladhanding.
One of the men, I recognized.
I pretended to cough into my palm. “Kestrel’s here,” I whispered into the microphone. “If you can see me, keep an eye on me.”
I waded through the small throng and tapped my recent acquaintance Mr. Burke on the shoulder.
“Hey, friend,” I said. “Fancy meeting you here.”
He smiled like my 9th grade gym teacher when he caught me cutting class for a smoke.
“You should have taken my offer, Jones. You would have enjoyed your new life in some other city.”
“I don’t know. I think I might like Baltimore.”
He shook his head. “You really won’t. Doesn’t matter now. You’re a problem that’s out of my hands.”
“Meaning I’m someone else’s problem?” I steered us toward the edge of the waiting area. “Like whose?”
“Like the people who are going to make your last twenty-four hours a living hell before dumping your body in Chesapeake Bay.”
“Ooh, that sounds like a threat.”
“We’re done threatening you. Mr. Bordani made the only fair offer you’re going to get. Now he’s going to move on to punishing you for being a pain in his ass.”
Agent Powell cleared his throat and tugged on Burke’s sleeve. “Excuse me, sir, could you step this way please?”
Burke glared at him with disgust. “Wasn’t there a ‘No Coloreds’ sign around here?”
Powell flashed his badge. “I’ve got a pass.”
Burke’s expression twisted into ‘trapped rat.’ Powell winked at me, but Burke growled. “You made a mistake, Jones. You’re finished and you don’t even know it.”
“Now, now, Mr. Burke,” said Powell. “You’d best keep those comments to yourself. In fact, you might want to think hard about everything you say from here on, though I do strongly advise you to cooperate.”
Two other men had moved in as well; one of them did something with Burke’s hands behind his back while the other held on to his elbow. As they led him away, Powell looked up at the sky and went on as if we were discussing the weather.
“I’d say we’ve got enough to bring Bordani in.”
“They’re not the only game in town.” I was thinking of JANUS.
“Keep a lookout, then. We found a few of your buddy’s friends lurking in the corners while we were sweeping the place, so hopefully Aranjuez is in the clear.”
“It’ll be a nice little coup if you just did the Secret Service’s job for them.”
“Don’t you know it. Enjoy the rest of the day, Allan. I’ll be in touch once everything’s over.”
I nodded and Powell hurried off. Leslie walked over, a curious look on his face, and held up his camera to get a shot of Powell and Burke leaving the reception area.
“Don’t,” I said.
“What was that about?”
I sighed. “Just squashing a bug.”
“Was it a pleasant bug squashing?”
“Oh yes.”
 “Gentlemen! Gentlemen, if I may have your attention.” Canton Marlston’s voice rang over the crowd. It took the assembly a moment to settle down, but they deferred authority to Marlston, even the two big-wigs.
“I’ve been informed that President Aranjuez will be landing in just a few minutes. He has a very busy schedule for the next few days, but my secretary will make sure that each of you has a chance to speak with him while he is here. When he arrives we will have some words of greeting from our esteemed representatives and a few comments by Mr. Aranjuez himself. We will have time for a few questions from the press, but I encourage you to keep them brief. I invite you all to a black tie reception we will be having tonight at my estate in Washington. My staff will ensure that you all have the details. Are there any questions?”
Someone from the Postraised his hand and asked something inane, but I didn’t hear it. I’d just seen something impossible from the corner of my eye.
“Leslie,” I whispered. “Blond security goon, private security, not Secret Service. He was over to the right a minute ago. Do you see where he went?”
Leslie scanned the crowd with a steadier gaze than me. He nodded toward a man in a gray coat on the far side of the reception area. “That him?”
I stared. Maybe it was. “Let me have your camera.”
“What? No.”
“Just for a minute. I’ll give it back.”
I wrested it out of his hand, but the strap was still around his neck; I almost yanked him over while pulling the camera’s eyepiece to my face. I rotated the lens to bring my target into focus.
It was him. The man in the gray suit, standing calmly with his arms crossed, was the same man who’d tried to kill me in my apartment three days before. The man who should have died when my apartment building exploded.
I let go of Leslie’s camera and brought my hand up to speak into my watch. But what was I going to say? That there was a dead man the FBI should bring in for questioning? I could be wrong. I’d only seen his face for a moment on Saturday night, but certain things, like the appearance of someone who wants you dead, tend to stick with you.
What the hell.
“Powell. Listen. There’s a guy, blond, gray suit, arms crossed. Kind of a flat nose. He’s standing about three paces behind Crawthorn and some businessmen. I swear he’s the guy who shot up my apartment. Over.”
I don’t know why I said ‘Over.’ It’s not like Powell was going to respond. I would just have wait and see if something happened
“Gentlemen,” said Marlston, “I’m told that Mr. Aranjuez is landing now. If you will follow me to the airfield?”
We filed through the tiny pilot’s room, then through the private hanger, and finally onto the edge of the tarmac. The main public building of Friendship International sat like a pile of matchboxes on the far side of the airport. To the southeast, a three-prop Howard 500 was just touching down.
It took about ten minutes for the plane to taxi towards the hanger. In the meantime I floated through the crowd, looking fruitlessly for my phantom attacker. I did bump into Representative Crawthorn. He scowled at me with, I’m sure, no idea how much time I’d spent digging up dirt on him, or that I’d been planning to go after him at all. I tipped my hat and smiled.
Speech became impossible as the airplane approached. Its propellers didn’t spin down until the aircraft came to a halt about fifty feet away. It was large enough to accommodate about a dozen passengers, plus a pilot and a stewardess. A hatch cracked open just behind the wing, and a short metal stepladder unfolded from inside.
Without any sense of decorum, the crowd of visitors surged forward. The Secret Service formed a cordon to prevent us from actually mobbing the newcomers. Two dark-skinned young men in military dress descended from the airplane, and Marlston led the congressmen through the crowd to welcome the visiting dignitary.
Leslie and I were in the very front of the throng. A Secret Service agent stared at us without a glimmer of human emotion. Maybe he’d sold his soul for that perfect physique and absolutely square jaw. Leslie elbowed into a better position for a shot of Aranjuez, and I stood on tiptoe to get a glimpse over the Secret Service man’s shoulder.
Aranjuez was a small man in light gray pinstripes. He inched his way down with a wooden cane in his right hand. He was balding on top, and his caramel skin contrasted sharply with his stark white hair. He smiled and waved at the crowd, and his smile looked kind and genuine, not the practiced stage smile of an American politician.
A bright red dot of light danced on the shoulder of the Secret Service man in front of me.
Crap. There were seconds to act, if that. I shouted into my wristwatch and prayed that the FBI would hear.
“It’s now! It’s happening now! They’re going to kill him now! Move now, now now!”
The Secret Service agent heard me and grabbed my shirt. “What did you say?” By moving, the red dot was now on his head.
It was the last thing he did.
His skull exploded the instant I heard the shot. Quick bursts like a drum cadence peppered from the distance, and within the assembled crowd, red began to fly.
People screamed. Aranjuez collapsed on the runway under one of his own attendants. Marlston pulled the congressmen to cover under the plane. Secret Service men yanked handguns out of their shoulder holsters, but more than one of them hit the ground brains-first.
Leslie spun around. “What the hell?”
Three rounds tore through his throat. His head rolled back and his body followed. The mob scattered to the four directions, making each us an easier target. I fell to my knees and shook Leslie’s body.
“Tim! Tim!”
But he was clearly dead. His eyes were already glassy. The bullets had nearly decapitated him.
A pair of shoes materialized on the ground beside of him. I looked up to see the silhouette of the Whisper taking shape between me and the clouds. Screams and gunshots filled my ears like a fog.
“Hey,” I said. “We’ve got to get out of here.”
The Whisper’s black gloves took form in the air. He held my own Glock and aimed with both hands.
I had nowhere to run.
The Whisper squeezed the trigger and something punched through my chest. Somehow I kept my balance. The next shot ripped through my sternum. I looked down to see blood pouring out of me like water. I could feel the heat from the Whisper’s gun’s muzzle as he brought it up close to my head.
Blackness ended my world.
To Be Continued?
***
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Table of Contents
The Whisper © 2013 Jared Millet
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The Whisper: Chapter 4

The Conspiracy Beat

Every Sunday morning, Farnsworth and his old lady attended the 10:30 service at St. Mark’s United Methodist up off of Wisconsin. I shuffled in the cold across the street under a funeral parlor overhang and waited for church to let out. I wasn’t presentable – hell, I was still picking glass out of my coat sleeves – but mainly I hadn’t felt comfortable going to church ever since I got back from the war. Somewhere in Korea, me and God parted ways. I’d seen God’s so-called plan in action, and I didn’t want to have anything to do with it.
Folded in my pocket (the one that didn’t have Hugo’s tape) were the pages I’d typed on the Aranjuez story. It was some of my worst writing and full of holes, but I wanted to get as much as possible on the record and into someone else’s hands before the next time someone tried to put a bullet in me. I was thumbing the sheets, obsessively double checking to make sure they were there, when some guy in an overcoat passed by and gave me two quarters. I took them without thinking, then only realized what had happened after the guy turned the corner.
Great. I was now officially a bum.
I stubbed out my cigarette and crossed the road when the congregation filed out around 11:45. Mrs. Farnsworth spent a minute holding the pastor’s hand and congratulating him on his fine sermon as he greeted them on the way out. I could tell that George was anxious to get home to his Sunday pot roast, or maybe there was a game coming on the radio from the way he kept checking his watch.
I finally caught his eye and tipped my hat. I could see him mouth the word “Jesus” when he got a load of my appearance, then he pointed his thumb at a leaf-covered walkway to the side of the church, next to a small cemetery. I nodded and shuffled through the herd of parishioners to wait for him.
“What in the name of all the Disciples happened to you?” he asked. “You spend the night in a dumpster?”
“More or less. My building blew up after a guy with a machine gun tried to kill me in my apartment. And how was your evening?”
He scowled as if I was taking too long to answer him seriously, then his face melted a little when he realized I already did.
“Oh god, Jonesy. Thank Jesus you’re alive. Seriously, I mean that. If I had any idea this kind of thing would’ve happened I’d never let you on the case.”
“Well, we’re in it now.” I handed him my pages. “Leslie’s contact gave up a tip on Bordani. He’s involved with an outfit called Kestrel Security. I’m going to pay them a visit when their office opens tomorrow. And I’ve got an angle on Aranjuez. Someone told me to ‘follow the money’ to figure out who would benefit from his death. That got me thinking about those new banking regulations he’s put in place. San Magin’s got a rep as a tax haven, kind of a poor man’s Switzerland. He might have irritated some powerful people if he asked them to start paying rent for all their golden goose eggs. I want to call Roxy and have her look up—”
“Hold it right there. I don’t want any more hit men coming after you, and I certainly don’t want them after Roxy. I’m killing the story.”
“The hell you are. This is too big, Georgie. It’ll finally put the Street on the map. Hell, it’ll put me on the map. You, me, Leslie, if we bust open this thing, we’ll finally get the respect—”
“Jones. Stop.” There was a tightness to Farnsworth’s face that I usually associated with ‘Do not disturb, I’m writing an editorial.’ “First, never call me Georgie again. ‘Mr. Editor, Sir,’ will do nicely. And second, I’ve got plenty of respect, apparently from everyone except you. Now I’ve told you this before and I’ll tell you again until you drill it into your skull. The Street is not, I repeat, NOT a scandal rag. We’re not looking for that ‘one big story’ that’ll make us famous. Our magazine is reliable, professional, and trustworthy. That’s where our strength is, not in the big headline scoops. You can’t count on scoops to pay the bills. At best, they put a target on your head. Haven’t you figured that out?”
I could feel myself boiling under Farnsworth’s barrage, and my control was slipping from too little sleep. To my surprise, I had to fight the urge to punch him.
“Look,” I said, shaking my head. “I’m not backing down from this. People have died, and more definitely will if we don’t sort this out.”
“So go to the cops!” Farnsworth’s voice went up a whole register. “Fine, we don’t trust those NSA goons, but there’s got to be someone we can take it to. I got an in with the U.S. Attorney’s Office. I’ll call ‘em as soon as I get home, get this thing out in the open.”
“Fine,” I said, “but I can’t leave it alone. Whoever you talk to has got to know that we’re not going to drop this. Sweeping this under the rug can’t be an option. It’s too big for that.”
“No, you’re right,” Farnsworth said. “And I hate it that you’re right. And I hate that of all the people under me, it’s you whose lap this fell in.”
That stung. “Why do you say that?”
“Because you’re too eager. You’re too desperate to prove yourself. It’s like you want to atone for the fact that you used to write for that trashy L.A. paper. And I could tell you a million times that a paying job is nothing to be ashamed of, and I know damned well you wouldn’t listen.”
I turned to look at the graveyard. Farnsworth was right, of course. I was ashamed of how I’d wasted five years in Los Angeles, and I was desperate to accomplish something important to make up for it. I was sick of Allan “Smithee” getting all the ink; I wanted Allan Jones to do something worth remembering before he ended up in the ground.
“Look, I’ll be careful, okay? I’ve got a… friend who’s helping me out. He pulled my ass out of the fire last night, and I’m lying low while I work the rest of this. I’m watching my back.”
“Fair enough, but I’m still calling my guy at the Attorney’s Office. And Allan… When was the last time you had anything to eat?”
“Lunch yesterday?” I honestly wasn’t sure.
Farnsworth pulled out his wallet and gave me a fiver. “Don’t stick your neck out too far. We’re not at war. No one expects you to lay down your life.”
“Maybe someone should,” I said. “Maybe people ought to do that more often.”
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I took the trolley back down Wisconsin and got off on Pennsylvania. There was a hot dog joint open for lunch on weekends, and I meant to put those quarters that fellow had given me to good use. The streetcar was almost empty, so I noticed when a guy in a dark green overcoat got off right behind me. In storefront windows I could watch his reflection as he followed me down the block to the diner, and when I slipped inside I swear he turned to face me as he walked by.
I took note of everyone in the diner before I sat down. There was one waitress and four customers, all of whom were black. I relaxed. I doubted that power-hungry conspirators were hip on racial integration. I ordered two dogs and a coffee, and kept a look-out for any white people who might follow me in.
On the way to a phone booth, I wondered if I was being paranoid. Or maybe, inappropriately paranoid. After all, with all the scientific devices JANUS had, there could be twenty guys watching me and I’d never know it. Odds were that anyone I could actually see wasn’t a genuine threat. Still, it would be stupid to let down my guard.
Roxy’s phone rang five times before she picked up.
“Hello?” she said in the middle of a yawn.
“Hey, kid. It’s Smithee.”
“Allan!” She turned my name into a shriek. “What are you doing? Your apartment burned down!”
“You heard that, huh? Yeah, I’m calling from a phone on—”
“Don’t tell me! For Pete’s sake, is someone after you? Are you safe? Should you get out of town?”
“Slow down, slow down,” I said. “I’ve got a place to stay, don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere. Are you up to running an errand or two today?”
“Sure thing,” she said. “Just let me get dressed. I’ll do anything you need.”
“That’s great. You got a pen and paper?”
Roxy already had the answer to one of my questions. Aranjuez was landing at noon on Tuesday at Friendship International just outside of Baltimore. Instead of using the main terminal he was going to disembark at the hanger for privately-owned airplanes on the far side of the field. I asked her to find any details I might use to finagle my way inside, or even a plan of the airport in case I had to sneak in. I’d have to figure a way to get to Baltimore without my car if I wanted to be there in person.
The next stop was the Street. It never really shut down, not even on Sunday. The weekend receptionist buzzed me in without looking up from her crochet. In the newsroom there was the cleaning service, a couple of sports writers typing up Saturday’s college games, and a guy on the financial beat getting a jump on the next day’s starting numbers for the stock market. Lucky him, that’s the guy I wanted.
“Hey,” I said, “Robinson, right?”
“Nelson.” He rubbed his knuckles when he put down his pen. “Robinson’s out on medical. What’s it to ya?”
“I’m working a story on this island called San Magin, supposed to be hot in the banking business. Where would I look up which banks are down there, and who owns them?”
“We got a Bank Directory down in archives, but it’s about five years old. If these are offshore banks, they might not be listed unless they’ve also got branches in the U.S. Most likely they don’t, but they’re probably owned by board members and shareholders from a bunch of banks in the States. Give me a week and fifty dollars and I can map it all out for you. After hours, of course.”
“Of course,” I said. “Should’ve got started on this sooner, huh?”
“All else fails, you could always call someone down there.”
Yeah, right. I doubted San Magin even had phone service, unless it was to a military base. But that got me thinking. Farnsworth’s office wasn’t locked, and I knew where he stashed his little black book of contacts. After an hour of phone calls from Roxy’s desk (and lying through my teeth about my credentials) an editor at the Miami Herald gave me the number for an investment broker who specialized in companies doing business in the Caribbean. One call later, and I had a list of ten banks in San Magin and a couple of known U.S. affiliations. I offered many thanks. Now I had something to work with when business opened in the morning.
I spent another hour going through my desk. It was the first chance I’d had since the NSA rifled through it on Friday, and I wanted to see if they’d taken anything. Sure enough, my papers on Representative Crawthorn were gone. That kind of thing was outside the NSA’s purview, but it would be interesting to see if anything came of it. I wouldn’t be writing my story thanks to my deal with DeFranco, but I couldn’t help what someone else might make of my notes.
It got dark early that time of year, and since I’d spent most of a day without getting shot at, I didn’t want to press my luck by walking the streets at night. I rode the trolley as close to my dive as it would take me, popping into the single open grocery I could find for a loaf of bread, some beans, a pint of milk, and a can opener. I tried not to picture everyone else I knew, snuggled warm at home with their pot roast, carrots, and mashed potatoes. Christ, I would have killed just for a beer, but this was Sunday and there wasn’t any helping it, not unless I wanted to track all the way across town to Uncle Pepe’s “bottle club.”
I looked at my new dwellings from under the marquis across the street and asked myself what the hell I was doing. Farnsworth wasn’t the only one to question the cost of this story. Hear I was, having schlepped across town to a flea-trap hotel that catered to fugitives and prostitutes, about to have a healthy repast of cold bean sandwiches. And for what… the scoop? Fame? Respect? I couldn’t even respect myself in the state I was in now.
And three stories up, the light was on in my room.
There were three rooms lit up on my floor, and I counted the windows – twice – to make sure one was mine. Fifth from the right, no doubt about it.
I sighed. What were my options? Did I have any? The weight of my groceries pulled down on my arm. I could go sleep under a bridge, I supposed. Find some lucky hobo to share my bounty with in exchange for a few hours of undisturbed shelter. Maybe I could get a room at the YMCA. Did they even have one in Washington? And did they have rooms? There was no one to ask on U Street on Sunday night, that was for damn sure. Maybe I should go to a church and ask for sanctuary. Did they still do that, or did that die out in the Middle Ages?
I had a gun. It was still there, stuffed in the back of my pants. The weight had been there all day, so much that I’d pretty much forgotten about it, except as a pain in my ass. But it was a gun, with at least a dozen bullets if the Whisper hadn’t been lying about its clip size, and it was sure to be untraceable to me, short of being caught red handed with it.
Screw it. Whoever wanted to push me tonight, they’d find me ready to push back.
There was a fire escape on the south side of the building. I left my groceries behind a trash can and jumped several times until my fingers caught the bottom rung and I pulled the ladder down. Unlike in my apartment, the window to the landing wasn’t stuck, though it did take some pushing to get it open. Just as I did, I saw someone open one of the doors down the hall. I crouched below the sill and listened, hoping I’d be able to tell if they were coming my way.
Eventually I had to peek over the edge. No time to play chicken. I took off my hat first so I wouldn’t make too obvious a target.
The hall was empty. I pulled myself through the gap and trod as quietly as I could. The floorboards were anything but tight, so I set each foot down gingerly, keeping as close to the wall as possible. The gun was in my hand, and I was ready to blow someone’s head off.
I made it to my door without incident. There was light from underneath and through the open vent above. My heart pounded clean through my ribcage, and the reality of how crazy I was acting sank on my shoulders like a straightjacket. What was my plan – to run in and start shooting?
I caught two voices before I could answer that question.
“I spy with my little eye something beginning with B.”
“Shut up.”
“Bored, man. I’m bored out of my mind.”
“Bored isn’t a thing. It’s an adjective.”
“Well, look at you, fancy-ass college boy.”
“My god, I’m going to beat you so hard your mother’s going to feel it.”
“If I wanted to be on a stake out, I wouldn’t have left the force.”
“You were thrown off the force, asshole. What was it, incompetence?”
“Excessive force, if you really want to know. God damn it, how long ‘til this guy gets home?”
Two things were obvious. One, my paranoia had been justified. Two, these guys weren’t JANUS. At best they were a couple of low-rent thugs. If they’d been half as good as the guy who’d come after me the night before, I’d never have made it down the hallway alive. That didn’t make me want to shoot these bozos any less.
Time to see which of us was dumber. I knocked on the door, then stood to the side.
“The hell?” I could hear one of them say. There were two steps, then the door cracked open and the guy said, “What is it?”
I kicked the door open the rest of the way and leveled my gun at his face. I could’ve shot out one of  his eyes right there, I was so excited, but I held firm to the notion that if I wanted to get some sleep that night, I shouldn’t blow someone’s brains all over my room.
“Hands up,” I said. The man complied. His hands went up, showing yellow stains under the armpits of his shirt. He was older and heavier than I’d guessed from his voice. His face turned bright red and his eyes went as round as teacups. His tie was cheap, he wasn’t wearing a coat, and I didn’t see a holster or a gun on him.
The other man in the room cleared his throat. I risked taking my eyes off of the first one. His companion was thinner, younger, and much better dressed, in a pinstripe suit and a tasteful green tie. He wore round glasses and, like his companion, didn’t seem to be carrying a firearm. He too raised his hands, but spoke only with a tone of caution, not fear.
“Mr. Jones, I presume?”
“That’s right,” I said. “Who are you?”
“My name is Burke; the fellow sweating through his pants is McCreary. We’re employees of Kestrel Security.”
“Bordani’s outfit?”
“Just so. I see you’re aware of our employer, so I’ll dispense with unnecessary explanations. I’m told your previous residence met with an unfortunate accident last night, Mr. Jones. Let me offer my sympathies to the difficulty you must be experiencing.”
“Is that some kind of threat?”
“Hardly.” His demeanor had completely changed from what I’d heard out in the hall. “Please, Mr. Jones, lower the gun. Neither of us is armed, and I would hate for any further accidents to happen. You might find it hard to live with yourself.”
I waved for McCreary to step away, then pointed the gun at the floor.
“Fine,” I said. “What do you want?”
“Our employer,” said Burke, “recognizes the position you find yourself in, and would like to offer assistance. It is a generous offer. I hope you consider it.”
“Go on.”
Burke pulled an envelope out of his pocket and set it next to my typewriter. “This is a cashier’s check for enough money to cover a nicer hotel than this…” He waved at our surroundings. “…and a train ticket.”
“To where?”
“Anywhere, Mr. Jones. Your choice. You can go anywhere you want. New York, Chicago, Atlanta, New Orleans. We don’t care. Mr. Bordani acknowledges your situation and is offering you an out, free and clear. I suggest you take it.”
“In exchange for what?”
He shrugged. “Leave Washington and never come back. You don’t have to turn over your notes. You don’t even have to give us the tape. All we want you to do is disappear and start over somewhere else. Neither our organization nor its clients will bother you again. Ever.”
He touched the envelope again to square it with the edge of the desk, then waved for McCreary to follow him. He walked around me to the exit without even looking at my gun.
“Consider the offer, Mr. Jones. The money is yours to keep. Sleep on it if you have to. I’m sure you’ll come to the right decision. If you cash the check, that will signal to Mr. Bordani that you have accepted and agreed to his terms. Good evening.”
He closed the door as he left. I locked the deadbolt and sank down on the bed. The envelope, unopened, stared at me. I could just walk away. I could get a nicer room. I could start over somewhere else, somewhere I could just fade into the woodwork.
I slipped the envelope open, just to see how much my life was worth. Burke had understated their offer. In my hand was a crisp, clean money order made out for one thousand dollars, mine for the taking.
My dinner was still outside, behind a garbage can in the alley.
So my life was worth a thousand bucks. How much for my integrity? I wasn’t a journalist for the money. Sure, I had to admit that I was in it for the recognition, but a big part of it was that it gave me a chance to do the right thing. If I started over, would I ever get that chance again?
I looked at the cashier’s check more closely. The signature was illegible. The name of the bank was not. “Howlett & Moore.” It rang a bell. Howlett & Moore was one of the stateside trading partners my Miami financier had mentioned in relation to the Banco Central de San Magin.
Gotcha.
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***First thing Monday morning I took my last $20 to the nearest department store and bought a new outfit and some basic toiletries. I paid for the clothes, changed in the dressing room, and stuffed the hobo’s get-up I’d been wearing in the trash. I spruced up in the men’s room, then headed to work a solid hour late.
I ran into Roxy on the steps. She was on the way out, and in kind of a hurry, a bunch of folded papers stuck out of her handbag.
“Hey, kid,” I said. “What’s the rush?”
“Allan, hey! Sudden emergency. I’ve got a thing. Call me later? And can you tell Georgie I’m taking a sick day. Thanks!”
“Sick, what… Hey, you didn’t tell him yourself? Who’s on the switchboard?”
She mimed a telephone with her free hand and shouted, “Call me!” before running down the street.
Inside, I heard the noise from the newsroom before I’d even got past the foyer. Every reporter on the payroll seemed to be present for once. They’d all congregated in circles around each other’s desks and were jabbering hot and fast. Leslie saw me come in and broke off from his group to grab my arm.
“Hey, what gives?” I said. “The commies launch another Sputnik?”
“We’ve been bought out,” he said.
“What!” I know I shouted, but the room was so loud no one noticed.
“It’s like it happened overnight. No one had any idea this was in the works. Some new fat cat moving in on the media business made the publisher an offer over the weekend, and it was a done deal as soon as the lawyers woke up this morning.”
“Christ, I saw Farnsworth yesterday, and he didn’t say anything. What happens now?”
“Now, you meet the new boss,” Leslie whispered in my ear. “He asked to see you personally.”
He what? One scenario reared itself in my head: the Street had been sold to Bordani, and Kestrel Security goons would swoop in any minute and break my arms for not leaving town. Leslie led me to Farnsworth’s office, where I could see several silhouettes through the door’s frosted glass. It was with a mountain of trepidation that I stepped inside.
Who I found there stopped me dead with surprise. Chatting with my editor was newsreel star and ace reporter Lane Young and her commandeering gentleman friend whose name must have fallen out of my head when my jaw hit the floor.
“Ah, Jones,” he said. “Good to see you again. What a strange coincidence, us bumping into each other over the weekend. I trust you’re doing well?”
I put myself back together and took a moment too long to answer. “Well? Sure, fine, I guess. I don’t under— I’m sorry, but I’ve completely…”
“Canton Marlston,” he filled in the blank. “Come now, Mr. Jones, a reporter ought to be better with names, don’t you think? Or maybe you’re just out of your element without your notepad. Should I wait while you collect it?”
Lane slapped the back of Marlston’s hand. “Don’t be rude, darling. You can see he’s put out. I’m sorry, Mr. Jones, I know you’ve had a lot to absorb in a short time this morning.”
“You can say that again.” I turned to Farnsworth. “Boss, what’s up?”
“What’s up is you were right,” he said. “This Aranjuez story is going to put the Street on the map. If this thing blows big enough, we could even take the magazine national.”
I needed to sit down. I wondered if Farnsworth would mind if I poured myself a drink. “Go on?”
“Your editor has been filling us in on this ‘death threat’ story,” said Marlston. “It’s all very exciting. I’m going to fund a full investigation, and I’ve made an offer to the State Department to personally host President Aranjuez on his visit. He’ll be under my protection for the duration of his stay.”
“Wait,” I said, putting a few things together. “You’re buying the Street because of my story?”
Marlston laughed. “Hardly. The timing is merely fortuitous. And it’s not ‘buying,’ it’s ‘bought.’ There’s nothing left but formalities.”
“Okay, then.” I still couldn’t figure if this was a good thing or bad. “I’ve had a few more developments on the case. I guess I’d better type them up.”
“Do that,” said Farnsworth. “You can share them with Ms. Young.”
“I can… what?”
“Lane is going to partner with you on this piece,” said Marlston. “She’ll be the public face of the investigation, to take some of the spotlight off of you in this matter. I understand it’s been pretty difficult for you. Besides, I think we can arrange for Lane to interview Mr. Aranjuez on the evening news. I can pull some strings.”
I looked Lane Young in the eyes. “You’re taking my story?”
“We’ll share the byline,” she said. “I wouldn’t dream of taking that away from you. But this is getting into national security matters. It’s bigger than any one reporter, no matter how intrepid.” She smiled with a little dimple that for some odd reason reminded me of George Reeves condescending to Phyllis Coates, but if shewas Clark Kent, that made me Lois Lane.
Son of a bitch. My hero, my idol, the person who’d inspired me to be a reporter in the first place, was poaching my story.
“Boss,” I said to Farnsworth, “I think I need to clear my head. You mind?”
“Go ahead,” he said. I nodded to Marlston and Young, then left.
I sat on the bench in front of the building and pulled out my last cigarette. What the hell had just happened? Suddenly, being shot at by assassins who could walk through walls and rescued by an invisible man didn’t seem half as unusual as it should have. This, the sale of the paper and the deal with Lane Young, that completely pulled the rug out from under me.
And now my god damned lighter wouldn’t work. A black man walked up to me, I assumed to offer me a shoe shine.
“Not now, thanks,” I said. “But say, could I borrow a light?”
“Allan Jones?” the man said, pulling out a government badge. “Special Agent Powell, FBI. You’re wanted for questioning in the murder of Hugo Harvey.”
To Be Continued
***
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Table of Contents
The Whisper © 2013 Jared Millet
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The Whisper: Chapter 3

Death or Consequences
Glass flew everywhere with the first volley of gunfire, then three more bursts blew plaster and dust all over my kitchen. Whatever the shooter was firing, it was semi-automatic, and I’d stake my life it was military issue. The Whisper held me to the floor, then faded out of sight except for the black glove over my mouth.
Silence followed. I could imagine the sniper waiting for the dust to clear in order to begin again. I hadn’t even turned the lights on, so I couldn’t figure how he knew I was there. Then I remembered that strange red dot that I’d walked right in front of.
“M4 Carbine with laser sight,” the Whisper said. “They’ve gone way off-era for you, sugar. Stay on the floor. I’m going to see how many there are.”
I started to ask what he meant by how many, then I realized there might not be one assassin, but a hit squad. Mystery man’s orders or not, damned if I was going to stay put, but I did stay on the floor. My bedroom didn’t have any windows facing the sniper’s line of fire, so I crawled on my elbows across the glass-strewn kitchen to reach a safer location.
Besides, I had a clue what the killer was after, and I meant to get to it first.
Thank God for Basic Training and coat sleeves. I made it to the bedroom without doing worse than ruining the suit Leslie gave me. Once it was safe to get to my knees, I crawled over to where I’d left Hugo’s reel. I’d kept it, which was probably a stupid thing to do, but I didn’t want anyone at the Street to get caught with it in case the Feds or anyone else came snooping around. Being shot at in my home was a scenario I hadn’t envisioned, but like an idiot I’d assumed the bad guys were several steps behind.
At least I hadn’t left it on my night stand. I pried a loose board up from under my bed where I usually kept some spare cash hidden. There were forty bucks and change down there; I grabbed the money and squeezed the tape into my right jacket pocket.
There was a pokfrom my bedroom wall. Still crouching, I looked over my shoulder. There it was again: a faint pok and a sound of crumbling mortar. The sniper was doing what… testing the strength of his bullets against the building’s brick wall? There was another sound like a cable pulling taught, and my instinct told me to get the hell out of there. There was an old fire escape out my bedroom window. I shoved my bed out of the way so I could get it open.
The damned frame was painted shut.
Somewhere below me, a door slammed. Shouts trickled up through the floorboards. Elsewhere in the building was a gunshot. Closer to home, there was that sound of a cable again. I stood frozen, unable to decide if I should hide under my mattress or in the closet.
A man in black emerged through the wall like a ghost. He hung in the air for a moment as if he’d swung in like Tarzan, then landed on the floor with a well-practiced crouch. The huge black gun he carried had as much in common with my old army service rifle as a battleship has with a rowboat. A needle of red light like a science fiction death ray extended from what should have been the targeting sight. He swung the weapon around until it shone in my eyes, and squeezed.
Someone’s hands gripped my ankles. The world exploded as the assassin fired his weapon on full automatic. The bullets passed through me. I could feel them, each one like a hiccup. I could hear the chest of drawers behind me fly apart under the barrage, but there was no pain, no blood, no harm. Was I dead already? I could feel myself getting lighter. Then I realized I couldn’t breathe.
I gasped like a fish as my lungs shrank in. The man with the rifle cursed and reached for a knob on his belt. On pure reflex I reached toward him for help, but the hands that gripped my ankles yanked me down through the floor.
It was like sliding on ice. One moment the room around me flew upward, and the next I was in the apartment below. The Whisper fell with me, more solid than I’d ever seen him. Beneath the white coat was a black belt with knobs and dials just like my assailant’s upstairs. He let go of me and I slammed to the floor, suddenly solid as a rock. I took in a desperate breath, my lungs working again and thirsty for air. I pulled myself to my knees, and for the first time I truly looked the Whisper in the face.
I screamed.
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The Whisper’s skin glistened like black oil. His eyes were bulging black domes three inches across. His mouth was a gaping maw filled with quivering black worms. A red light blinked from between those terrible eyes the same shade as the beam of death from the assassin’s gun upstairs.
“Quiet!” His voice no longer a hoarse whisper, it was still garbled and muffled. How could that coiling horror of a mouth emulate human speech?
We weren’t alone in the room. The mother of the family downstairs saw the both of us and shrieked. Two children we’d almost landed on darted away and cowered behind her.
“Get out!” I shouted. Above me, the hit man in black descended through the ceiling feet-first. The Whisper faded partially out of sight, erasing that monstrous face. He pulled out a handgun the same angular black as the assassin’s rifle, aimed with both hands, and opened fire. The blast struck my attacker in the chest and blew him backward through the undamaged wall.
I didn’t wait around to see if more were coming. Instead, I jumped to my feet and yanked the apartment door open. “Lady, get your kids out of here.” They almost tripped over themselves rushing out, then a man in a stained tee shirt stomped in from the next room and roared.
“Who the hell is in my—”
The assassin clubbed him from behind and shoved him out of the way as he fell. The shooter didn’t even bother to aim; he just held his gun low like a gangster in a movie and sprayed the room with bullets. The last thing I heard was a whine like a Gatling gun. The Whisper tackled me, and everything went black.
We fell through vacuum. Once again I couldn’t breathe. I saw gray rooms, gray walls, gray earth passing by. My insides seemed to shrivel and my skin grew tight as my blood tried to boil its way out of my body. There was nothing, nothing in this empty black space except me and the Whisper. I could see my reflection like Munch’s “Scream” in his giant, black eyes.
He gripped my shirt and tie in a bunch, holding me close though I tried to struggle away. With his other hand he holstered his gun and pulled out something else that looked like a fistful of snakes. I flailed and tried to smack him away, but without leverage my blows didn’t have any force. He backhanded my cheek, and while I was stunned he shoved the writhing mass into my mouth.
My lungs reinflated, and the pain that wracked my body narrowed to a piercing throb in my temple. The Whisper held a finger where his mouth should have been as if to shush me, then made a gesture for me to wait. He pointed to a dial on his bandolier, the one that seemed to control when he faded in and out of reality. I took several deep breaths, then nodded that I’d calmed down.
He turned the knob and the world solidified around us. We’d fallen all the way to the basement, where the only light was a faint glow from the furnace. When I once again felt the weight of terra firma beneath me, the Whisper let me go and dialed slightly out of existence.
“You can take the breather out,” he said.
I spat the ball of tubes into my hand and wiped them off on my coat. Now that I could stop and think straight, I could see that it was made of some kind of rubber.
“What is this?”
“When you phase out of solidity, everything passes through you, not just solid matter. My mask filters the air back into phase so I can breathe. Breathing comes in handy. That thing in your hand is a replacement filter.”
“So that’s not your real face?”
He cackled. “What, did you think I’m some kind of Martian?”
“That, or you’ve got two squids having sex for a head.”
He held up a hand to shush me, then pulled out his gun. Someone was walking slowly on the floor above us.
“They must not have known which apartment was yours. Otherwise they would have waited inside and killed you when you got home.”
“That’s nice.” I spoke as quietly as I could. “How many are there?”
The Whisper took aim at the ceiling. “It was a two man team. There’s just the one now. I took care of the other on the stairs.”
And with a dead body in my apartment building not a whole day after having my car shot up, there’d be no way the cops wouldn’t drag me in for questioning.
“Who are they from?” I said. “Bordani’s security firm?”
“They’re JANUS. Probably not actual members, though. Hired mercenaries using JANUS equipment.”
“Like yours, you mean.” It was pretty obvious that the Whisper and the bad guys shopped at the same hardware store. My friend didn’t answer for a moment.
“It’s a little more complicated.”
“I’m sure it is.”
The footsteps continued overhead. They would stop for a moment, then pace again four or five steps. 
Someone was hunting.
“Are you JANUS? Or ex-JANUS, maybe? Out with some personal vendetta against your old buddies?”
“Do you really want to fend for yourself?” he countered. “Because if you don’t want my help, I’ll leave you to it.”
“I’m just asking questions. I’m a reporter. We hate cryptic.”
“You were a soldier too, right?” Without waiting for an answer, the Whisper dialed fully back into view, reached behind his belt, and pulled out a second gun. He flipped it around and passed it to me hilt-first. It was shaped vaguely like my old Army Colt, but it was solid black, an inch shorter, only half as heavy, and apparently made of some kind of plastic.
“Is this a toy?”
“It’s a Glock. I’ll show you how to field strip it later. The safeties disengage automatically when you pull the trigger, so just point and shoot. The magazine holds seventeen rounds.”
“Seventeen?!”
“Shhh.” The Whisper waved me toward the far corner of the room, then faded himself back out to half-transparency. He took aim at the ceiling again and fired four shots. The bullets passed through the floor above without leaving a mark.
The muffled thunder of a machine gun followed. There was no damage below, but the Whisper quickly backpedaled away from the spot he’d been standing. I guess I was out of the equation for the moment. For the moment, these two with their super-weapons and comic book powers were only gunning for each other.
The hit man dropped through the floor and landed in a crouch. This time I looked at him and not his gun. He wore a form-fitted black outfit that covered his whole body, even his head. His face was obscured behind a solid, black glass plate with a protruding shield around his jaw (and presumably his “breather”). There was a dimple in his chest where the Whisper had hit him before. He must have been wearing some kind of bulletproof vest.
The Whisper opened fire from his side of the room. The man in black shot back; the burst was deafening in the tiny basement. I had him at a different angle, so I raised the Glock and put three bullets in his side.
They passed right through.
He swiveled around to face me, and once again I stared down that futuristic barrel of death. A shot rang out from the Whisper’s corner, this time tearing off the control assembly on the assassin’s “phasing” belt. Caught between the two of us, our assailant glanced down at his ruined equipment. He was now completely solid.
I took a step forward and shot him in the face.
His head snapped back and he crumpled to the ground. I ran up to the body and kicked his rifle away. His mask was still on, and though the glass was shattered, it was merely impacted – my shot had bounced off. I stuffed the Glock in my pants and lifted the man’s mask off. He had blond hair, a square jaw, and a freshly broken, bloody nose. Otherwise, he was still breathing.
The Whisper walked up and pointed his gun at the man’s unprotected head. In an instant I realized what he was about to do, and shoved his hand away just as he pulled the trigger. The shot so close deafened me on that side.
“What the hell? You’re going to kill him?”
“He’s as good as dead already. JANUS won’t let one of its agents be captured.”
“We can question him. We can turn him over to the police. We can… Do you smell that?”
I doubt that he could through that horror show of a gas mask. But I knew what it was: too much gunfire in a dangerous room for bullets.
“Gas! This place is gonna blow!”
The Whisper grabbed me for a third time that night, and we phased out of existence just as the heater exploded.
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In Korea, the closest I ever got to the action was one time when a stray mortar set fire to a village my convoy had stopped in for the night. We set up a bucket brigade from the nearest well while our radio officer called in a possible enemy position, but the most we were able to do was slow the flames long enough to get most everyone and their animals out of their homes before they were consumed.
That was a world away. This was here and now.
The Whisper and I watched from behind a dumpster in an alley across the street. The fire department was surprisingly fast to arrive, but even then all they could hope for was to keep the blaze from spreading to other buildings. From the shouts of the woman who lived below me, I gathered that everyone had escaped except her husband, the one my assassin had clubbed unconscious. He’d almost certainly still been alive, and a black tide surged upward from my stomach. It was all I could do to keep from throwing up. For all I knew, it was my bullet that had ruptured the gas line. Granted, most of the shooting had been done by the guy trying to kill me, but he wouldn’t have even been there – and my neighbor would still be alive – if I hadn’t got involved in this mess.
The Whisper became solid enough to put a hand on my shoulder. It was good to feel the weight of someone else’s understanding. A temptation to drink myself silly presented itself for consideration, but I rejected it. There was too much rage. It boiled to the point that I shook as I watched several families’ homes burn to the framework.
Who were these bastards who would do such a thing? Who were these worthless sons of bitches who believed that their own petty schemes were worth this kind of suffering? Who were these psychopaths with so little humanity that they would wreck other peoples’ lives, from the cradle to an early grave, just for their own gratification?
The Whisper knew.
“Tell me about JANUS,” I said. “God fucking damn it, tell me now.”
“You’re not ready to hear it. I’m sorry to hold back, but that’s the honest truth. I think you’d believe me, but I don’t think you’re ready to bear it if I told you where they came from and why. All this…” He gestured at my home, now engulfed in smoke and fire. “…you, your friend Harvey, the thing with Aranjuez, it’s just the barest tip of their operation, one small wheel in a giant machine that’s been running longer than… Longer than JANUS even knows.”
“But you’re one of them, right? You’re one of the scumbags who did this. You have to be.”
“I’m NOT.” His fury crackled through the static of his voice. “Don’t even think that. I’m not, I will not be a part of this. At most I’m a… No, not even that. You could almost say that… No. No, there are things in life you can’t help, and there are things you can. And what I can help is that I am not JANUS. I never was and I never will be.”
My god, he was babbling, and protesting too much, methinks, as they say. Nevertheless, there was passion there, and hatred, and thank God it was on my side.
“Hey, it’s okay. I’m sorry. I’m just a little upset too, right? And I thought, well, since you and the other guy can both walk through walls…”
“No, you’re right. I do have a connection to JANUS, but it’s not what you’re probably thinking. I’m not an ex-henchman, or enemy defector, or anything. But yeah, I stole a lot of their gear when I had the chance. A prototype phase belt – the only one that can turn you invisible, by the way – and weapons. Lots of weapons.”
“Like this?” I held up the gun he’d given me.
“Hang on to it. I don’t have another clip on me, but you should have plenty of rounds left. If we’re very, very lucky, JANUS might think you’re dead, at least for the rest of the night. Have you got any cash?”
I nodded.
“Then hole up somewhere cheap and shady for now. I’ll be in touch when I can.”
“What about Leslie and Farnsworth?” I’m ashamed to say the thought that they might be in danger didn’t cross my mind until then. “Will JANUS be gunning for them too?”
“I don’t know. I’ll check and make sure they’re safe. You better take care of yourself before you faint.”
“Hey Whisper. What’s really going on with this Aranjuez thing? Could you at least tell me that?”
“I honestly don’t know. I don’t know their plans, Allan. I only know what they’ve done already. And believe you me, that’s bad enough.”
With that, he disappeared.
I found a cash-only dive on U Street. A narrow flight of stairs between a pawn shop and a second hand clothes boutique led three stories of tiny rooms, rickety beds, and questionable light bulbs. There was a fair chance I might be mugged while going to the bathroom, but it was doubtful anyone looking for me would come into this place until they turned over every rat hole in the District of Columbia.
Rooms were a dollar a night. I gave the hefty, unshaven clerk a fiver and asked him not to bother me for a while. He didn’t look inclined to even get out of his chair short of the need to urinate or buy more booze. Halfway down the hall, I turned and went back.
“Hey, buddy,” I said. “You got a typewriter anywhere? And paper?”
He stared at me like I’d spoken Russian. Then he lifted his sagging bulk and lumbered toward a storage closet. There was a knock, and a bang, and a scrape, then he heaved himself back to the counter and dropped a scuffed up, twenty year old Royal on a stack of crinkled pages.
“Five dollars,” he said.
Like I said, mugged on the way to the bathroom. Damned if I was going to ask this guy if he had a toothbrush. I flattened the pages against my jacket and cradled the typewriter under my arm.
My room had a stool and a school desk next to the bed. I set the machine down and went over to the window. There weren’t any blinds or curtains, but at least all the panes were in place. Across the street was a theater marquis advertising some new Gary Cooper western. Next to it was a boarded up newsstand. In about five hours, it would open with new editions of the Post, the Baltimore Sun, the New York Times. The Washington Streetwould be going to press for a Tuesday sale date. The deadline for the next issue was Friday morning.
If this JANUS group was scared enough to come gunning into my home, it could only be for one reason. The Glock wouldn’t do me much good, but there was a real weapon at my disposal, and I’d bought it for $5 from the scummiest hotel clerk in the nation’s capital.
I fed the first sheet into the Royal and started typing.
OCTOBER 11, 1958A Hollywood attorney named Hugo Harvey met his end on Friday, October 10, in or around a tavern named Happy Jack’s in Arlington, Virginia, after crossing the country from his native Los Angeles. He came to D.C. on a personal mission to bring to light secrets he had learned regarding the actions of a mysterious cabal with apparent connections to both organized crime and officials in our own government. Before his demise he delivered to this reporter an audio recording of a conversation in which two men discuss the impending murder of a foreign dignitary, President Diego Aranjuez of San Magin. The purpose of this assassination, and what these conspirators hope to gain by it, were unknown to Mr. Harvey and have yet to be revealed.
To Be Continued
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Table of Contents
The Whisper © 2013 Jared Millet
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The Whisper: Chapter 2

The Last Testament of Hugo Harvey

The package contained a seven inch reel of audio tape and nothing else. I stared as if it would uncoil and bite me, then Farnsworth said, “Hand it here.”
I didn’t argue. Farnsworth slipped it into his desk and spoke quietly. “Jones, you stay here. Leslie, as soon as those goons leave, go to the equipment room and bring down a tape machine. I’m going to call Roxy.”
“What for?” I said.
“’Cause I don’t know how to work the damn thing.”
Roxy showed up forty-five minutes later. She might have been there sooner, but Farnsworth had told her not to come in until after the NSA had cleared out. It was possible they’d already tapped our phone lines, but I didn’t see any need to point that out. She arrived in the same clothes she’d worn earlier, but without any makeup. I was surprised how little difference it made.
Leslie wheeled down a tape recorder on a mail cart. Roxy sent him back for an empty reel to spool the tape on. Once she’d threaded the ribbon across the machine’s pickups and told Farnsworth exactly which button not to press or he’d erase it, he told her, “Good work, darlin’. Now go back to the switchboard. I’ll call you when I need you.”
“Sure thing, chief.” She winked at me as she left. Knowing that what we were about to hear might be dangerous to learn, I didn’t really want her listening in, but there was no way to stop her without betraying her spy techniques to our boss.
Farnsworth pressed PLAY, and the recording started mid-sentence.
“—telling you it’s not going to be another Guatemala. The CIA would have made a right mess of that if Bernays hadn’t stepped in to handle P.R.”
“Was he one of yours?” said a second voice.
“Hah. I wish. No, Janice has people in the media, but that United Fruit thing was purely home-grown. It was almost like they were using our playbook.”
“But why do it different this time? I mean, to kill a President…”
“Like I said, the CIA was sloppy. Why stage a coup on—”
Farnsworth stopped the tape. We sat in silence for about ten heartbeats, then he said, “Did I just hear what I think I heard?”
“Kill a President,” said Leslie. “My god, someone’s gunning for Ike?”
“Jones,” said Farnsworth, “what do you know about this Harvey guy? Is he one of the people on this tape?”
I shook my head. “I don’t think so. He was kind of a sleazy lawyer, but he was all right. I mean, he still had a soul, if you know what I mean. Remember that whole Immigrant Brides expose I did for the Whisper? He’s the one who tipped me off on that.”
Farnsworth nodded. “Do we want to go on listening, or should we call Agent Tyler and hand it over?”
I thought for a moment. If this was my call, I’d better call it right. “The guy on the tape mentioned the CIA like he’s someone on the inside. If we give this to Tyler who knows what’ll happen to it? Besides, that bastard knew Hugo was dead before I even got here, I’d swear it. Let’s hear the rest.”
Farnsworth rolled the tape back and started it again.
“Like I said, the CIA was sloppy. Why stage a coup on foreign soil when you can control the situation on your home turf? A thousand guerrillas are pricey. One bullet is cheap.”
“So when do we whack him?”
“Slow down there, Ace. You may be in Janice’s good graces, but you’re not all the way in. uhRonwhz is coming on the Fourteenth—”
“What was that?” said Leslie. Farnsworth rewound the player.
“—not all the way in. Ron Hez is coming on the Fourteenth to brownnose a bunch of business and congressmen until the next Friday. That’s our window. Your job is to make sure that…”
The voices faded out. Next came several scuffles and bumps as of someone digging their way out from a closet, or under a desk. There was a muffled bang that sounded like a waste bin falling over, and a voice I recognized as Hugo’s saying “shit shit shi—”
The recording cut off mid-profanity, then suddenly became louder with the thud thud thud of taps on a microphone.
“Is this thing on? Christ, I hope it is. Better not be taping over anything important.
“Smithee… Alan, I hope it’s you hearing this. You did all right by that foreign brides thing, and you kept my name out of it. I owe you for that, and I never paid you back. I don’t know if I’m paying you back now or just screwing things up, but I gotta tell you, I don’t know where else to turn. These bastards are on to me, and as long as I’m the only one who knows about this I’ll never be safe. I hope I was able to meet up with you tonight, but I’m sending this tape separate in case I don’t.
“You know I work with some scummy pigs, that’s no secret to either of us. But this, I’d never… Murder, Al. Assassination? That’s too far.
“So here’s the story. I was at this party for a big-time promoter who shall remain nameless, but his initials are J.S. I’d just kept one of his leading ladies out of the slam for… That doesn’t matter. You know how these parties go. Everyone knows who I am but no one wants to admit it in front of their friends, so I hand out a bunch of business cards and act like everyone’s a stranger.
“I had a bit to drink that night, enough that I thought it was a good idea to lug around J.S.’s tape recorder and try to get some “true confessions” out of the party guests. I don’t remember passing out in his office, but I remember waking up when those two on the tape came in.
“The second guy, the one asking the questions, that’s Drew Bordani. He runs a catering business that serves a lot of B-flick producers and word is he bankrolls pornos on the side. He’s got some family connections back east, if you know what I mean, but the rumor is that he’s in L.A. because his so-called family told him to take a hike.
“The other guy, I don’t know who that is and I don’t know this Janice person he keeps talking about. When he showed up, though, he came in this big, black car around the back of the house with some bodyguards who looked like goddamn Secret Service. J.S. tried to keep anyone from noticing he was there. It was all pretty hush-hush.
“Anyway, I got out of there quick with this tape but someone must have got suspicious, because the next day they ransacked my house and office while I was out. The day after that, I was being followed and… Well, it’s a long story.
“I went to your old paper to find you, but they didn’t know where you’d gone. I got a call from… well, somebody who told me you were in D.C. and when I got out here and met ‘em… Nah, you’ll think I’m nuts. But I ain’t nuts, Allan. I’m serious as a coronary. I don’t know much about what’s going on here, but even that little bit’s got me scared. This ‘Ron Hez’ fellow is arriving on the 14th – that’s Tuesday – and I hope you can piece some of this together in time to stop whatever’s going down.
“I ain’t made much of my life, Smithee. Not much to be proud of. I’ve ended marriages. I’ve put druggies back on the streets. I’ve kept some horrible people out of jail just because they were famous. There’s a lot of secrets I’ve learned to live with, ‘cause that’s the guy I am. But I want to make this thing right. I hope you can help me out.
“See you around.”
The tape after that was blank. I lit another cigarette and took a drag to settle myself.
“Now I’m just confused,” said Farnsworth. “Is there a story here or not? Some mysterious guy meets with a mob caterer and talks about killing the President? But who’s ‘Ron Hez’? Who’s Janice? What does this have to do with Guatemala? This Harvey guy doesn’t know squat.”
“Someone thought he did,” I said. “Someone didn’t want to take that chance. And I bet if you could identify the other person on the tape, that’d break the thing open.”
“I might have a line on Bordani,” said Leslie.
Farnsworth rubbed his eyes. “A guy who knows a guy?”
“Yeah, we can meet up with him tomorrow night.”
“If,” our editor said, “I allow it. Jones, what are you thinking?”
I needed to sleep, but I wouldn’t be able to. “I think we should chase it. We can’t trust the NSA with this, and we can’t give it to the cops because they’ll just turn it over to the Feds. Turning out a conspiracy like this could put the Street on the map in a big way. This is what the press is for: to drag shit like this out into the light where the rats can’t run.”
“You fuck up your analogies when you’re tired, you know that?” Farnsworth buried his head in his hands to collect himself. “All right. You’re both assigned to this. Leslie, see what your contact knows about Bordani. Jones, try to figure out who Ron Hez is, and what he has to do with the President. You’ve got the weekend to show me some progress, or we turn the tape over to the Feds and hope they don’t slap us with obstruction. Agreed?”
I nodded. My eyes could barely stay open.
“Good, now get out of here.”
I stumbled by Roxy on the way out. She was drawing doodles in a crossword, her head propped up on her other hand. We were alone, so I said “You hear any of that?”
A slight nod was her only answer. “You know, for a bunch of reporters, you guys ought to read the paper more.”
“How’s that?”
Without looking she dragged a sheet from today’s (yesterday’s?) Washington Post.
“Diego Aranjuez.” She pronounced it a second time, slowly. “Ah Rahn Hwez. President of some little Caribbean island. He’s coming to D.C. on some diplomatic something or other. My guess is that he’s the president your caterers are after, not Eisenhower.”
“You read the Post?”
Roxy sneered. Her eyes were bloodshot. “Go home, Smithee. You look like crap.”
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Leslie banged on my apartment door around nine the next evening. The noise about rattled me off the couch. I hadn’t meant to fall asleep again, but my body felt like it’d shifted to Chinese Standard Time after all the goings-on the night before.
“You ready?” he shouted.
“Hold on.” I found one of my shoes and hopped into it while unlatching the dead bolt. Leslie peered at my rumpled shirt and unknotted tie and shook his head.
“Lucky for you, I’m psychic.” He passed a dry-cleaning bag on a hanger through the doorway before sliding in himself.
“What’s this?” I said.
“Your outfit. No way am I letting you into Di Godere dressed like a hobo.”
“I do not dress like a—”
“Zzzt.” Leslie drew a zipper in the air. “Get dressed. Take your time. No one but Farnsworth cares how late we are.”
The suit he’d brought was light gray, with a crisp white shirt and blue-striped tie. How he knew my size I couldn’t guess. I had a hat that would match fairly well, but my shoes hadn’t been polished in a week. No time for that now; I’d just have to hope it was dark wherever we were going.
“What is this, a rental?” I asked from the bedroom.
“Pure thrift store. Nothing but the second best for you, my friend.”
He wasn’t lying. The outfit was nice in that it was clean, but Leslie himself would looked like he was slumming by just being near me. His silk suit was tuxedo black, his bow tie rose red, and his shoes were shined like a new Jaguar. I never knew photography paid so well.
I hadn’t been idle all day. A few calls to a nice little desk clerk at the State Department followed by a trip to the public library and I had at least the basics on our target: Diego Cristobal Ferdinando Aranjuez, newly elected Presidenté of the brand new nation of San Magin. Educated at Harvard of all places. As soon as he was in office he started making some offshore bankers nervous with new regulations, but he’d done nothing as dramatic as nationalizing foreign assets. No one I could find had mentioned the word “socialist” yet in relation to his government, but I’d be surprised if the CIA wasn’t looking at Aranjuez real hard.
And yes, he was scheduled to fly into D.C. on Tuesday the 14th, landing in a private airplane at Washington International. Who’s private plane, no one could say. From what I could learn, San Magin didn’t have an airstrip big enough to land a crop duster.
I presented myself to Leslie. He sniffed and arched an eyebrow.
“Shall we call a cab?”
I grunted assent. The goon squad had towed my Packard before I’d even had a chance to say goodbye. Not that I could have driven it tonight anyway. Leslie was being coy about where we were going, but I was pretty sure it wasn’t a drive-in. That was fine. I’d managed to go a whole day without relating the story of my shoot out with the Invisible Man, so I couldn’t blame anyone else for keeping their trap shut.
We took Massachusetts round Dupont Circle, then went up Connecticut toward a part of town where I couldn’t even afford the coffee. The cabbie turned just before Rock Creek and twisted through a swank neighborhood until we pulled up in front of someone’s private estate.
“What gives? I thought we were going to some restaurant.”
“Di Godere,” said Leslie, “is no restaurant.”
He was right. We walked up the drive past immaculate hedges toward glowing windows and muffled music. A black man who was dressed better than I was guarded the door.
“Sam,” said my companion.
“Mr. Leslie. Go right on in. Who’s your friend?”
“This is Jones from the Street. He’s on my tab tonight.”
“So you say. Enjoy the club, Mr. Jones.”
We opened the door into a wall of sound. Most of the first floor of the house was one huge room with a vaulted ceiling and a tiled, sunken dance floor. Tables and red velvet curtains lined the walls. Dim lights shaped like candles illuminated every alcove, while a staggering crystal chandelier brightened the whole gala. Against the far wall, a ten piece band of brass and drums charged the air like lightning. Men in suits sharp enough to cut mingled with ladies in clever dresses that cost more than I made in a month. The jewelry on display was enough to blind you.
“Leslie, what the hell is this place?”
“Di Godere,” he said. “It’s a bottle club. Come on, let’s head to the bar.”
“A bottle club?” I had to shout over the band. “Don’t these people know Prohibition’s over? Like, twenty-five years ago?”
Tim shook his head. “Prohibition starts at 2:00 a.m., my friend. Places like this keep the party going ‘til dawn.”
“Places like this?” I said. “You mean there are more?”
“What in God’s name have you been doing since you moved to here?” Leslie asked. “Don’t you know by now that we’ve got four times as many drunks per capita than any other city in the country? It’s not just dive bars and liquid lunches. Some of us have class.”
Tim ordered a scotch. I asked for rum and ginger ale. The bartender looked at me funny, but at a wink from Leslie he eased up.
“So you’re saying you can afford this place?” I asked.
“Don’t have to. Wait and see.”
The band finished their set, and moments later a thundering baritone announced himself at the bar.
“Timmy!” the stocky man greeted us. “Come here, boy. Give Uncle Pepe a hug.” The newcomer lifted Leslie an inch off the ground with a bear grip and planted a kiss on each of his cheeks.
“Uncle, let me introduce somebody,” said Leslie. “This is Allan Jones. We’re working a story for the Street. Jones, this is Joseph DeFranco, proprietor of Di Godere.”
“Hey, any friend of my nephew’s. Order what you like, it’s on me. You pay next time.”
“Thanks.” I lifted my glass. “You’re really his uncle?”
Leslie shook his head, but “Pepe” slapped him on the chest. “Of course I’m his uncle. I’m everybody’s uncle!”
“Uncle Pepe,” said Leslie, “can we talk somewhere?”
“Sure thing, boy. Just let me square away a few things and I’ll meet you and your friend in the kitchen.”
He patted me on the back and left to go do whatever it was he had to. Leslie said something, but I didn’t hear.
I’d recognized someone standing across the room – leaning, really, in a stunning silver dress that was stylish in what it didn’t reveal. She sipped a glass-clear martini with a nonchalance that led me to imagine that her thoughts were a billion miles away, far from the now tawdry surroundings.
I don’t get starstruck. Honestly, I don’t. You don’t spend five years digging through celebrities’ dirty laundry and still glamourize the rich and popular. But we all have our idols, we all have those who inspired us and led us in some way down the path our lives eventually took. And there, not twenty feet away, was Lane Young. Her long, yellow curls hadn’t lost any of their shine. Her face barely showed the lines of care it deserved to have after all the human tragedy she must have seen.
I gulped my rum and wished it was stronger.
“Allan?” said Leslie.
“Give me a minute.”
I set down my glass and walked toward her, flanking her from the right so she wouldn’t see me approach. What do you say to your heroes? Hell with it. I’m a reporter. I’ll think of something.
“Ms. Young?”
She turned as if she expected to recognize me, and was surprised when she didn’t.
“Yes?”
“You don’t know me, I’m… I’m Allan Jones from The Washington Street.” I held out my hand. “I just wanted to say that I’m a huge fan.”
“Really?” She drew the word out for as much as it was worth, but the smile that broadened those lips looked as genuine as the tears she’d shed on those WWII newsreels.
“I just wanted to say that, well, your reporting from Italy, the interviews you did with the soldiers coming home… It really inspired me. It’s why I do what I do.”
“And what is that?” she said. “I’m sorry, that sounded rude, didn’t it? I mean, what are you working on right now? Anything interesting?”
An impulse struck me to tell some of the truth, and I did. “I got a tip on a story about the president of this Caribbean island, name’s Diego Aranjuez. He’ll be in town this week, and I’m hoping to land an interview.” Among other things. As I spoke, the thought crossed my mind that having a few people know what we were working on might offer a measure of protection. After all, we were trying to save the man’s life and worry about the exclusive scoops later.
“And how is that going, Mr. Jones?” The man who cut in had a deeper voice than his thin frame should have allowed. Lane’s grin flickered when he appeared, possibly out of annoyance. He put his hand on her shoulder. “Flirting with the competition, darling?”
“Just talking to an admirer, sweetheart.”
“And I’m hardly competition,” I said to her beau. “Just a working stiff on the political beat.”
“That’s where all the true greats get started,” he said. “Don’t be too modest. You could be the next Edward R. Murrow.”
From anyone else, it would have sounded condescending, but from this guy I couldn’t tell. With his slicked-back hair and hawkish face, it was near to impossible to guess his age. His black suit said “money” but without any sense of ostentation. However he felt about a two-bit nobody like me sidling up to his famous, award-winning “darling” didn’t show at all behind his mask of civility. Not to judge a book by its cover, but this was a guy I didn’t want to play poker with.
“Allan Jones.” I stuck out my hand.
“Marlston,” he said as he gripped it. “Canton Marlston. I saw you getting friendly with Mr. DeFranco a moment ago. With those kind of connections, I’m sure we’ll be meeting again.”
Now, what the hell did that mean? Before I could think of a way to ask, Lane stepped in and took Marlston’s elbow.
“Now see, darling, you’ve gone and stolen all the attention away from me. It was very kind of you to drop by, Mr. Jones. I look forward to reading your work.”
I could take a hint, especially one so politely given. Besides, Leslie was tugging on my sleeve.
“Hey, buddy,” he whispered. “Let’s go do what we came here for.”
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We met DeFranco in the kitchen as he suggested. The room had been cleared except for the slab-like bodyguard at the door. There were sharp objects everywhere, and “Uncle Pepe” was trimming his nails with a paring knife. I wasn’t so naïve to think that DeFranco was merely a club owner, but I started to wonder how much I could find out about him without adding the word “accessory” to my credentials.
“So I look into this Bordani after you call me this morning. Found out he’s from Jersey City. Good family connections. His mother used to run a trattoria I heard good things about. I think one of my nieces married his cousin.”
He picked something out of his fingernail with his teeth, then spat it out. “The man himself is a coward. Persona non grata now on the East Coast. He was suspected of informing to the NYPD, but enough people owed him favors that he didn’t take a swim in the Hudson. Sent him to Hollywood instead. There’s punishment for you.”
“Does he still have friends out here, though?” I glanced at Leslie to see if it was okay to speak. I didn’t know the protocol for interviewing someone who might be high-ranking Mafia. “Does he know anybody in Washington?”
“This I asked myself. The Families don’t do much business in Washington. You can’t run a racket in D.C. without being elected, hey?” DeFranco laughed, and I forced a smile. “No one I called in D.C. even heard of the guy, so I rang someone in Los Angeles. They told me that Bordani has recently invested in a new security firm.”
That tickled the hairs on my neck. “Did you get the name?”
“Ey, don’t rush me. The firm is Kestrel Security Services. They’re based in Los Angeles, but opened an office in Washington. I wrote down the address here. It’s not in the phone book yet. No information on anyone named ‘Janice,’ but that wasn’t much to go on, eh?”
“Thank you,” I said. “It gives us a place to start.”
“Timmy didn’t say what this was about,” said DeFranco, “but I gather it’s something important, and I like to help my friends. May I consider you a friend, Mr. Jones?”
That seemed an odd thing to ask. “Uh, sure.”
“Good. I like that. I think that friends should always be square, you know? There should be no debts in friendship. Neither a borrower nor a lender be, eh?”
“Makes sense, but I don’t see…”
“I have done you a favor, finding this information, yes? I could hold it over you, say you owe me a favor in return some day. But I don’t like that. Gives me heartburn. Too much to remember. So I rather we be friends and square up now. Would you do that for me, Mr. Jones?”
I felt firmly boxed in, knowing I should have asked the price of admission before taking a seat. Oh, well. In for a penny, in for twenty to life. “I’d be happy to do what I can.”
“I have another friend, name of Crawthorn. I believe you know him.”
I didn’t say anything, but my shoulders sagged before I could stop them. So much for my game face.
“You know of him,” DeFranco went on. “I have been told you are asking around about him, and that you might be preparing a story for your magazine that my friend Mr. Crawthorn might not like to read, correct?”
I nodded. Yeah, Farnsworth had killed it – for the moment – but I could always have sold it to someone else. Yet I was already thinking of that story in the past tense.
“Well, in return for my information regarding Mr. Bordani, I would like you to lay aside any material you might be planning to publish on this other matter. Would you do that?”
And here I’d thought I’d made all my compromises in Los Angeles. But there was no other answer. In one hand was a bribe-taking congressman, in the other was somebody’s life.
“Consider it buried,” I said, and felt the door shut on the closet where I kept my integrity.
“See?” said DeFranco. “Easy! Everybody’s friends. You come to my club whenever you want, Mr. Jones. I must go now, but I see you around. You too, Timmy. Stay out of trouble.”
I glared at Leslie after DeFranco left the room. The photographer only shrugged. I went to find a phone to call my own goddamn cab ride.
***
My apartment was a third floor walk-up not far from Logan Circle. The nice old lady on the first floor collected rent, and the family in between us had about ten kids. They would be hitting their stride around midnight, so I had the cabbie drop me off at the end of the block. Walking the rest of the way, I’d have at least a moment’s peace and quiet.
There was a fellow reading a paper on the bench in front of the building. Not something you see in the middle of the night, but to each his own, I figured. I didn’t pay him any mind until he spoke in a hushed tone.
“I’m reading your stuff.”
“What?” I turned and really noticed him: white suit, white hat, black gloves. No head. He faded in and out of sight while the paper remained solid and tangible, floating in mid-air. He flipped the paper shut so I could see the nameplate.
“Christ.” It was the good old L.A. Whisper.
“It wasn’t easy to find this edition,” he said. “So lurid it’s funny, but an important bit of reporting.”
I looked closer to see what he was talking about. This wasn’t a new Whisper, it was an old one: the one that ran my expose on the “Brides from Slovakia” racket that funneled young women from Europe to California and sold them into slavery as sex toys.
“It should have been more,” I said. “I wanted to name names. Not just the ringleaders, but the customers. You wouldn’t believe who was on my list.”
“You’d be surprised what I would and wouldn’t believe.” The shadowy figure stood and handed me the paper. I’d never kept a copy for myself, so I folded it and stuffed it under my arm.
“I haven’t told anyone about you, you know. For one thing, they’d have me committed. I might sign myself into the funny farm in any case.”
“I’m real, Allan. I’m here to warn you. Keep following this story, but watch your back. You’re getting in deeper than you know. I was there at the club tonight. I could see you’re already feeling over your head.”
“Thanks.” I glanced around to see if anyone else might notice me talking to thin air. “You got anything a little more specific?”
“Two things. First, instead of following Bordani, you need to ask yourself who would benefit from deposing a nobody like Aranjuez. Who stands to gain? ‘Follow the money,’ like they say where I’m from.”
“All right, that helps. And the other thing?”
I couldn’t see him, but I could feel him step closer.
“Janice isn’t a person, it’s an organization. J-A-N-U-S. Like the Roman god.”
“What, does that stand for something?”
The invisible man chuckled. “That’s a more loaded question than you know.”
“Hey, what do I call you?” The first thing a reporter should have asked. “Claude Rains?”
“I guess a name would help.” His form briefly faded back into view, and he pointed at the paper under my arm. “Call me the Whisper.”
“What, after this trash rag?”
“Sure, why not.” He affected a hoarse Orson Welles impression. “Who knows what reefers lurk in the homes of the rich and famous? The Whisper knows.”
I had to laugh. “That’s cute. Seriously, what should I call you?”
There was no response.
“Hello?”
I was talking to air.
Fine.
The family below me was quieter than normal – only one shout and two screams as I climbed past. It was bright enough from the streetlights that I didn’t even turn on a lamp when I got home; I just tossed my coat towards the couch and my hat in the direction of the coffee table. Tomorrow I’d have time to look up Kestrel Security, but not much of anything would be open on Sunday. Enough excuse to sleep in, except for:
A pinprick of red light wavered on the wall next to my fridge. I’d never seen anything like it. At first I thought it was an ember, as if someone had set part of the wall glowing with a cigarette, but that couldn’t be. It was the wrong color red and nothing burns like that. Besides, it wasn’t holding still. As I watched, it tracked left over the sink, and I realized it was being projected. There was no one else in the room, so what was it? First an invisible, gun-toting Whisper and now an invisible elf with a flashlight?
There was a window across from my sink. Whoever was shining that light had to be in the alley outside, but three stories up? Maybe it was coming from the roof of the next building. I went to the window to see. It was pitch black outside, but the spot of light now bounced on my chest. Slowly, it slid upward toward my face.
“Huh.”
The Whisper exploded out of the air and knocked me to the floor. Just as my breath fled out, gunfire ripped through the space I’d been standing and tore a hole in the wall!
To Be Continued
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Table of Contents
The Whisper © 2013 Jared Millet
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The Whisper: Chapter 1

The Phantom Wiseguy
Getting shot at ain’t like the movies. There’s no “bang bang bang” of a bad guy’s gun, followed by some gent in a bloodless suit grabbing his chest and falling to the ground. No, when someone unloads a firearm at you, if you’re lucky you hear a pop like firecrackers off in the distance: a nice little note from your guardian angel that, “Hey, that guy who wants you dead just missed your ass!”
What I heard that miserable Friday evening while weaving my eight-year-old two-door Packard through the Potomac fog was the crash of my rearview flying off, the smash of my back window caving in, the ping of a neat little hole popping into existence two inches to the right of my reflection in the windscreen. 
“Son of a bitch.” The voice of my passenger was like static on the radio. That didn’t unnerve me nearly as much as the fact that my eyes said there was no one but me in the car. “Take a hard right at the next corner. Don’t slow down.”
A staccato rhythm like popping corn announced itself from my trunk. I gripped the too-close steering wheel with white knuckles, waiting for one of the tires to blow. Somewhere ahead was U.S. 29 and the Key Bridge back to Georgetown, and I had it in my head that if I could just get across like Ichabod Crane, all this crazy would fade out behind me. Another poke hole knocked itself out of the windshield, and the glass went chink chink chink as crystal fault lines spidered outward, just like my mind was about to crack if one more thing went nuts.
That’s right: speeding through the dark at who knows how many miles per hour with one god damn headlight and zero visibility, bullets flying around my head, the Invisible Man shouting orders, and part of me goes, “Oh look, a metaphor!”
“You missed the turn,” my passenger said. I didn’t even see the turn, and I goddamn told him. “Enough of this crap. Cover your ears.”
“With what?” My throat burned like I’d been screaming, though I don’t remember doing that. Then thunder louder than God erupted by my head. For the span of a firefly, bright flashes illumined a white jacket, white hat, and black gloves, but no face. My companion turned around, his back against the dash, and emptied a handgun the size of a Mack truck at our assailants. Tires squealed behind me, and my partner disappeared again.
“Is that it?” I said. “Did you get ‘em?”
“Shit, slow down.”
I could barely hear through the ringing. “What do you mean slow down?”
The biggest tanker truck I’ve ever seen filled the beam of my headlight, lunging forward at 60, 70, 80 mph. A black glove grabbed the wheel and yanked it out of my hands, hard to the right, and I screamed for true as my whole world whipped round into a swirling mass of pavement, tires, and fog.
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Look, let me start over. The whole mess really started that morning, just before lunch. I was at The Washington Street, in my editor George Farnsworth’s office, and he wasn’t buying what I was trying to sell.
“For crying out loud, Allan,” he said, “I asked for a story on the Transportation Commission, not this tabloid crap.” He slapped my notes on his overcrowded desk and leaned back in his chair as if to distance himself from them. Farnsworth had a paunch that kept pulling his shirt out of his trousers and a face that looked like a peeled potato, but his rolled-up sleeves showed massive forearms that could break an upstart reporter in half.
“What do you mean, crap?” I said. “I’ve got evidence of congressional ethics violations. If half of these reports of payouts to Representative Crawthorn are true, it could tip the election next month.”
“One.” Farnsworth rose from his chair and pointed at me. “You don’t have evidence, you have anecdotes and hearsay. That may have been good enough for that L.A. scandal rag you used to hack for, but it won’t cut it in this town, not unless your last name is McCarthy.  And two, it won’t do squat to his career. Crawthorn’s a ten year incumbent, a war hero, and his opponent is an anti-segregationist on the wrong side of the Mason-Dixon line. You’d have to catch him in flagrante delicto with an underage prostitute to put a dent in his reelection, and you’d need photographs to back it up. Besides, his constituents don’t read our magazine anyway.”
I winced at the mention of my previous employer. I’d tried my best to keep my work as a celebrity gossip monger a secret after I’d moved east. As far as most of my coworkers knew, all I had on my resume was some freelance work and a tour of duty writing for Stars and Stripes.
“What are you saying, we’re going to keep this under wraps?” I kept my eyes on those giant ham hocks he used for fists, but I plowed on. “I thought it was our job to let people know the truth.”
“Sweet baby Jesus.” Farnsworth’s face actually paled and his eyes grew wide as if the boogie-man had just popped out at a horror show. “How can you…? Seriously? Here. Sit down.” He shoved me into a chair and pulled an unlabeled bottle off of a shelf. I waited quietly as he poured himself a drink, but instead he handed it to me.
“Um, no thanks.”
“Drink or you’re fired.”
I poured the tumbler down my throat, then gasped as a grenade went off in my head. When I stopped coughing, Farnsworth sat on the edge of his desk and held the latest issue of the Street in front of my face.

“You want to know what our job is?” He opened the magazine to the inside back cover, where a model in a two-piece swimsuit and high heels leaned against a hot red convertible. “Selling cars.” He flipped to another page. “Perfume.” And another. “Toaster ovens. You and I are salesmen for toaster ovens. That’s what pays the bills. That’s what keeps the lights on. Magazines, newspapers, radio, television, it’s all just there to trick people into looking at advertising. That’s the job. Now, all these stories, editorials, what have you, that’s just a carny act. It’s the mermaid, the fire eater, the bearded lady. It’s to get Mr. and Mrs. Joe Public to look in our direction so we can make the sale. But you’ve got to give them what they want or they’ll look somewhere else.
“Now right at this moment, Mr. and Mrs. Joe Public in Washington don’t give two shits for some corrupt Southern politician, but they do care about whether or not the DC trolley lines might be extended to their shiny new subdivisions. So what you’re going to do is take these all these notes on Crawthorn and plant them in the bottom of your filing drawer. Then you’re going to sit yourself down and give me five thousand words on the Transportation Commission’s expansion plans by four o’clock. Agreed?”
I sighed. “Yes, but—”
“That was rhetorical. Now get out.”
I slunk out of his office feeling like a whipped schoolboy. Tim Leslie, the magazine’s star photographer, leaned across the hall, grinning like an idiot.
“Say, I’m in the market for a toaster oven,” he said. “Heard about any good deals?”
“Shut up.”
“Leslie?” roared Farnsworth. “Where are those glamour shots I asked for?”
“Right here, Georgie,” he said. “See you ‘round, Jones.”
Tim was all right, but he was Farnsworth’s golden boy and he knew it. As such, he could get away with murder and the rest of us would have to dispose of the bodies. I trudged down to the newsroom, where my desk and five thousand words of tedium awaited. There were half a dozen other hacks typing away on assignments, but most everyone else was out chasing leads, attending press conferences, or (more likely) having their first drinks of the day in one of the many seedy dives that lubricated the gears of the District of Columbia. Whatever that liquid fireball was that Farnsworth had poured down my throat was still making my nose burn. I almost looked forward to my hard, oak chair and barely functional typewriter.
A loud pop of bubblegum stopped me short.
“Gave you a chewing out, did he?”
Roxy Brandt ran the office switchboard from a desk about twice the size of mine. She was young enough that no one asked why she wasn’t married, the question was still when. From what I’d heard, she’d shot down offers of dinner dates from every eligible man in the office. She wasn’t a Hollywood stunner, but her short brown hair framed her perfect, round cheeks in a way that made me want to bundle her off to an amusement park, win her a teddy bear, and buy her a mountain of cotton candy.
“Christ,” I said. “Did he broadcast it over the intercom?”
Roxy tapped one of the plugs on her board. “There’s a short in his phone so his receiver never turns off. I can hear everything that goes on in there.”
That gave me pause. “Does Farnsworth know?”
“Not unless you tell him, cutie.” The words were playful, but her eyes somehow reminded me of a sniper I once interviewed in Korea. I mimed closing a zipper over my lips.
“Oh well, then,” I said. “Off to the salt mines.”
“Say, Jones,” she added between smacks of her gum. “You know anybody named Smithee?”
A chill ran over my scalp. I should have said no. I knew I should have said no. But I didn’t.
“Who’s asking?”
“Some guy called and left a number. Didn’t give me his name. Started off asking for ‘Allan Smithee’ then told me to tell you to call him.”
That’s all I needed: some ghost from out west to crash my new life and spread stories of my “good old days” at the L.A. Whisper. There were about a dozen people I could think of who called me “Smithee,” and not one of them I wanted to put in the same room with the Washington press. On the spot I formed a plan to find this bozo and shuffle him off to greener pastures… like Pittsburgh. I sank into my desk chair and asked Roxy to patch me through.
The phone rang six times before someone picked up. “Hello?” said a voice I didn’t recognize.
“Who is this?” I said.
“You called me, asshole.” There was noise in the background, like a restaurant or a bar. “You go first.”
“This is Allan Jones.”
“Smithee!” He shouted, then hushed himself all at once. He went on with a tone of palpable relief. “My god, it’s good to hear you.”
“Who is this?” I said again.
“It’s me. Hugo.”
I relaxed. Hugo Harvey wasn’t press, he was a lawyer, and despite that fact he wasn’t on my list of people to avoid. He sounded odd, though, and not like himself.
“Hugo! How’s it going? What are you doing in D.C.?”
“Oh, nothing much. Hiding out, on the lamb, you know. Angry clients.”
I could hear the nerves behind his levity. Something wasn’t right. “Is everything okay?”
“Oh sure, everything’s great.” It was a reflexive answer. “No, not really. Look, I’ve got some information I need off my chest. There’s no one back in L.A. I can trust. Hell, there’s no one anywhere I can trust, not except you.”
“Sounds heavy,” I said. “What is it?”
“A story, Smithee. A story that needs to get out. Bigger than that last piece I gave you. Bigger than anything you’ve ever handled.”
I was sitting up straight now, pen and paper in hand. “I’m listening.”
“Not over the phone.”
“Fine, I’ll come to you.” Screw Farnsworth and his Transportation Commission.
“I’m still on the move. Getting a little paranoid here in unfamiliar territory. I’ve got some things I need to see to, then I’ll hook up with you later. Can I call you at the magazine around six?”
“Sure,” I said. “Hey Hugo, how’d you know where to find me? I didn’t exactly leave a forwarding address.”

Hugo chuckled. “You wouldn’t believe it. Let’s just say an invisible little bird told me. See you around, Smithee.”
The line clicked. What the hell was I supposed to make of that? Hugo Harvey was a “bluff artist,” a lawyer who specialized in keeping celebrities’ indiscretions out of the paper. I knew him because whenever his clients let slip some juicy tidbits about movie stars who weren’t on his dance card, he’d make some extra cash by passing them on to people like me. Because of his need to cover his ass, Hugo was never the most forthcoming of people, but he’d never been so downright cryptic before.
“So why does he call you Smithee?” yelled Roxy from across the room.
“God damn it! That was a private conversation.”
“I didn’t listen much. A girl can’t help but be curious, especially about Mr. ‘mysterious past’ Jones.”
I groaned and walked over so I could talk more quietly.
“It’s a Hollywood thing. If a director doesn’t like something a studio does to one of his pictures, so much that he doesn’t even want his name on it, he’ll have them put ‘Directed by Allan Smithee’ in the credits instead.”
Roxy furrowed her eyebrows. “So you’re a big shot movie director now?”
“No, but the editor I used to work for would twist my stories out of shape so bad that I stopped using my byline entirely.”
“So that’s why your resume’s so thin,” she said. “And here I was hoping it was something more romantic, like spending five years in a Turkish prison.”
I looked at her sideways. “You think Turkish prisons are romantic? No wonder you don’t have a boyfriend.”

“Still got my eyes open,” she said with a smirk, then nodded at my desk. “Better get typing, movie boy. Those toaster ovens won’t sell themselves.”
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Hugo didn’t call at 6:00. I waited. I didn’t start to worry until 7:00. The other writers had come back from their morning binges- hyphen -press junkets, typed their stories, sent them to the copy editors, and gone home to their favorite bars. Roxy clocked out at 6:30 and let me take her place at the switchboard with the injunction that I not swear at anyone who called after hours. Farnsworth left the office at 8:00. He nodded at me as he passed through the newsroom. I’d made his four o’clock deadline, so whatever debt I owed the furtherance of American advertising was currently in the clear.
At 9:00, the phone rang for the eighth time since Roxy relinquished the board to me. The first call had been from a sweet old lady in Mr. Pleasant who wanted to complain about the school board allowing “commie Chinese” students into her grandson’s classroom. Three were hang-ups, one was from an upscale laundry service looking for ad space, and two were wrong numbers for Sonny’s Late Nite Grill. The last caller tried to place an order for a medium rare steak even after I told him he’d dialed a news magazine, so I told him to go to hell. When the phone rang again ten seconds later, I was sure it was the same asshole calling to tell me he wanted his potatoes au gratin.
“Smithee,” said the person on the phone.
“Hugo. Where the hell are you?”
“Across the river, at a bar near Arlington. Happy Jack’s. You know it?”
“No, but I can find it. What the hell is going on?”
“I’ll tell you when you get here. And Smithee, you got a gun?”
That shut me up for a moment. “What? No, I don’t have a gun. Hugo, what the hell is going on?”
“Get a gun. Bring it. I… I gotta go.”
The line went dead. It didn’t sound like a hang-up, it sounded like the line went dead. I dug the phone book out from under Roxy’s desk and thumbed the pages to Happy Jack’s Beer and Spirits in Rosslyn. I jotted down the address, then called the number.
“Happy Jack’s,” a woman answered with a thick Southern drawl. She pronounced it Jay-ucks. I hung up without speaking and headed for my car. I didn’t own a gun, and I wasn’t going to stop at a pawn shop and get a gun in the middle of the night. Hugo would just have to deal with it.
Happy Jack’s was actually a little past Rosslyn, a couple blocks off of Lee Highway. An October fog had rolled off the Potomac, framing the few streetlights in eerie halos. The bar was nothing but a blur of orange and green until I got close enough to make out the neon writing through the haze. It looked open, but the parking was behind the building. I drove to the end of the street and parked on the curb instead. That decision probably saved my life.
I adjusted my hat and buried my hands in my pockets against the cold. Every other store nearby was closed, and it wasn’t entirely clear whether they would open again in the future. It seemed awful quiet for a Friday night. Where were the teenagers who should have been joyriding? Where was the laughter, or the sound of a brawl, that should have been coming from the bar ahead? Something snapped across the road to my left, then a voice from the shadows on my right whispered, “Hey buddy, you got a light?”
I stopped and looked. There was no one there.
“Who the f—”
A weight slammed into me and threw me to the ground. I struggled for an instant until I heard an unmistakable noise from my days in Korea: that of a bullet ricochet.
“Shhh,” said the voice. I felt someone’s weight on my back, but when I looked over my shoulder all I saw was a streetlight.
“What the hell is—”
“Shut up.” The voice was no more substantial than the fog. “Scramble. Down the alley. Keep low. Now.”
I scrambled. The alley was dark. I banged into a trash can and startled a cat.
“Keep quiet.”
“I’m trying.” And I’m talking to myself. “Who are you? Where are you?”
“You came here to meet a man named Hugo Harvey.”
“That’s right.” I didn’t like this at all. Hugo had been scared to death, and I was starting to see why.
“Hugo Harvey’s in a black bag, and you’re about to be next.”
“If that’s some kind of threat…”
“It’s a warning, sweetheart. And you’re welcome. Now don’t move. I’ll see if it’s clear.”
This was nuts. There was no one there! I’d never heard voices in my head before. Was this how it started? It was five years too late for a Section 8 to do me any good. Then Hugo’s words came back: that “an invisible little bird” had told him where to find me.
He was right. I wouldn’t have believed him.
The only light was from the gap at the end of the alley. There, in the glow of the streetlamp, a shape appeared for the briefest moment of a thin figure. White slacks. White coat. White hat. Black gloves. I didn’t see a face. Scratch that: I didn’t see a head, just a hat floating on air. The apparition vanished and the voice returned.
“Can’t go that way. Head out the back. Hopefully we can circle around.”
“Where are we going?”
“Your car, sweet cheeks.”
“My car? What—”
Gunfire cut me off. Not a single shot, as from a rifle, but a fast blatt as from something meaner. Multiple chinks and pops echoed through the alley as metal collided with brick, and I didn’t argue with my invisible ally any further. Somehow we made it to my car, I got turned around, and we headed back down the gauntlet with only a headlight shot out before the chase really started.
***
And that’s how I ended up leading God knew how many killers on a night run for the Virginia – D.C. border. That’s how my car ended up looking like a Bonnie and Clyde castoff, and how I learned up close and personal what a giant tanker truck looks like head on while doing well over the speed limit.
My companion gripped the wheel and we spun. The gas truck seemed to fly around us like a great, white comet, and I swear two or three of my tires left the ground. I diverted some of the energy from my screaming into my leg and slammed on the brake, too little too late I was sure.
They say your life flashes, blah blah blah. All I saw was an obituary: 
Allan “Smithee” Jones, 1930 – 1958, parents dead, no accomplishments, no history you’d care about. Spent most of his service in Korea behind a comfortable desk while his friends were getting killed. Wasted five years trailing B-list Hollywood wannabes for gossip rags no one admits to reading. Came to D.C. to be a big shot. Ended up a grease stain on the highway. No funeral. Don’t bother sending flowers.
We came to the halt in the middle of the road. I had no idea which way the car was pointing. A Cadillac swerved around us and honked. Another car stopped about fifty yards away, its headlights beaming into my eyes. The cab filled with light from the other direction. We were boxed in.
I heard my friend reload. “Keep your head down. Drive forward slowly, then floor it when you get past that car.”
“Whatever you say, chief.” My voice cracked like it hadn’t since puberty.
I inched forward. A shot banged through the windshield. If I hadn’t been hunched, it would have taken my head off. I cringed even lower, so I couldn’t even see. I felt my companion tug on the wheel. Two more shots blew through the air. They were close. One tore through the car’s roof, while the other must have impacted the engine. I heard a whine that could only have been steam from the radiator.
“That’s it. That’s it. Now go.”
I floored the gas and sat up. I hoped one of the bastards was standing in the road so I could run him over, but there was nothing ahead but highway and just enough light to guess where the lanes were.
“They’re still behind us.”
“I know. I’m going to change my frame of reference. Don’t stop ‘til you get to D.C. And it might be good to lay low for a while.”
“You’re doing what?” I turned my head to see my passenger flicker toward solidity. Under his coat was something like a black bandolier. He twisted a knob like a dial, and then flew out the back of the car. Not out the window, but out of the car itself, like a ghost walking through walls. It was as if he’d set his feet down on the road and let me travel on without him.
I turned to look over my shoulders, and saw flashes of light from the cab of the car behind me, accompanied by pops of distant violence. The vehicle swerved, then tumbled off the highway into a ditch. I faced forward, wary of any more tanker trucks, and rode the pedal all the way over the bridge back to Washington.
***
My faithful old Packard held on long enough to die in the “No Parking” space by the fire hydrant in front of the Street building. There were other cars, all black and official, taking up the rest of the curb, and every light in the building was on as if we were open for business.
This was unusual.
Not to say that the magazine staff never pulled all-nighters, but usually we had several days’ notice and an impending deadline. I could only conclude that something else in addition to my own little escapade was going on tonight. All I had to do was get out of the car to find out.
All I had to do. Was get out of the car.
C’mon, asshole, get out of the car!
I took my hands off the wheel. They were shaking. I let my feet off the brake and the clutch. The muscles in my soles cramped. I pulled the key out of the ignition, slowly so as not to make a sound. I inched the door open, keeping my head low.
No one shot me.
I stumbled out to the sidewalk and looked back at my death-wagon. From the passenger side, it almost looked respectable. From the back it looked like a target from a weapons test range. From the front it was clear that someone would probably call the police the moment they saw it. I fished a pack of Oakwoods out of my pocket, lit one up, and took the short steps to the front door. It was unlocked, and there was a government man inside.
“Hold it, buddy,” he said. “What’s your business?”
“I work here. Something wrong with that?”
“Name?”
“The Washington Street.”
“Wise up, smartass.” He pulled out a badge that said NSA. “State your name and why you’re here.”
“Allan Jones. I work the political beat. I write words, okay?”
“You’re Jones? Go on in. You’re wanted inside.”
On second thought, just let me go back to a pay phone and call a tow truck. I had a feeling something bad would have happened had I said that out loud. Instead I swallowed and stepped around the Suit With a Badge.
The newsroom was crawling with NSA. Most of them were clustered around my desk. It occurred to me that I might need a lawyer. It also occurred that the only one I could think of was dead.
“Jones?” Farnsworth yelled from across the room. “My office. Now.”
All heads turned and tracked me as I crossed the newsroom. I tried not to stare back, but I kept watch from the corner of my eye to see if anyone reached for a gun, ready to drop under a desk for cover at an instant.
An NSA agent held Farnsworth’s door open for us. This one had a relaxed smile, and unlike the others his coat wasn’t buttoned. Maybe he was trying to put us at ease, but if this was the one agent who didn’t feel the need to impress with his authority, then this was the one I should be afraid of the most.
He shut the door behind us.
“Mr. Jones,” he said. “I’m Agent Tyler. First off, I want to apologize for this intrusion. Believe me, I wouldn’t have dragged your editor away from his dinner if it wasn’t a matter of utmost importance.”
“Am I in some kind of trouble?” A cliché, but the question had to be asked.
“Should you be?” Tyler’s smirk didn’t extend to his eyes.
“Don’t answer that,” said Farnsworth. No shit.
“Mr. Jones,” said Tyler, “did you receive a telephone call from a Mr. Hugo Harvey this afternoon?”
That was the opening move, but it wasn’t the question on my mind. That question was exactly how far I should go in cooperating with these goons. I had no reason to trust them – newshounds know better than to trust anything the government tells you that isn’t supplied by a court order – but on the other hand, despite violating a few traffic laws I hadn’t actually done anything wrong. I figured the best course was to lead with openness, not secrecy.
“He called me twice,” I said. “Once around noon, and once about an hour ago.”
“And what were the nature of these calls?”
“I used to know Hugo back in Los Angeles. He dropped me a line on a story now and then.”
“Did he drop you a line on a story tonight?”
“He hinted at something like that.” I was feeling on safer ground, or maybe that was the shock kicking in. I took a drag on my cigarette, which I’d ignored ever since I lit it outside. Farnsworth pushed an ashtray across his desk.
“I don’t really know. He wouldn’t talk over the phone, and I never got to meet up with him.”
“So you did go to meet him?”
Maybe I shouldn’t have said that. “Yeah, but… Well, he wasn’t where he said he’d be, so I came back.”

There was a knock on the door. Tyler leaned his head out, and another agent whispered in his ear. When Tyler came back, he said, “Mr. Jones, is that your car outside?”
Oh, Christ. “Yeah, what of it?”
“It sounds like you had a little trouble.”
I shrugged. “Some punks started shooting at me, so I high-tailed it back here. I’ll take it down to the garage tomorrow. What, you think I ought to call the cops?”
“That’s up to you, but I wouldn’t worry yourself about having it towed. I’ll call somebody to look after it. One more question.” Agent Tyler was grinning now. “Do you expect to hear from Mr. Harvey again?”
I looked that son of a bitch in the eye and said, “No. Somehow I don’t think I will.”
“Thank you for your candor, Mr. Jones.” Tyler passed me a business card. “Just in case you do, give me a call. Mr. Harvey’s become a person of interest, and any story he might put you on to… well, let’s just say you might want to run it by me first. There could be national security issues at stake. Mr. Farnsworth, thank you for your time. We’ll be out of your hair shortly. Good evening, gentlemen.”
Tyler let himself out, and Farnsworth turned to me. “Jones, what the hell is going on?”
“I wish to hell I knew. I’m always after the hot scoop, but this is bigger than I want to deal with. Let me tell you…” I was about ready to pop with the full confession, and that’s what an editor-in-chief is for, right? A tap on the door cut me off.
“What?” Farnsworth shouted. Tim Leslie slipped in and shut the door behind him. His camera was slung under one shoulder, and a satchel under the other.
“Busy night, chief?”
“Wiseass. Grab down that scotch or you’re fired.”
He did as instructed. While Farnsworth poured himself a double with no rocks, Leslie gave me a look of concern that didn’t really fit on his face.
“You okay, Jones? What the hell happened to your car?”
“Sit down,” I said. “I was about to tell.”
“Oh, by the way,” he said. “I snuck this past the goons.” He pulled a flat package out of his satchel and handed it over. “You know anybody named Smithee?”
I almost didn’t take the package. “Who the hell gave you this?”
“Friend of a friend who knows a guy. Said I should get it to you in case things got crazy tonight. I think this qualifies,” he said, thumbing in the direction of the newsroom.
“Jones,” said Farnsworth, “I’ll ask you for the last goddamn time. What the hell is going on?”
The package had the name “Smithee” written across it. I flipped it over, and a tiny “H.H.” was inscribed over the seal.
I had a feeling we were about to find out.
To Be Continued
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Table of Contents
The Whisper © 2013 Jared Millet
If you enjoyed this chapter of The Whisper, please leave a comment, share this page with your friends, and stick around for the next installment!

The Whisper : Start Here

It wasn't the hail of bullets through the windshield of his Packard coupe that shattered newshound Allan Jones's life, but the invisible man firing back in the seat beside him. Jones was simply following a tip from an old informant: a tip that could lead to the scoop of a lifetime. Instead, he finds himself wanted by government agents and threatened by a sinister cabal wielding weapons of super-science. A mysterious phantom benefactor saves him from harm one minute while leading him to danger the next, and though Jones owes him his life several times over, he can't help but wonder... Who is The Whisper?

The Whisper is my crazy project for National Novel Writing Month 2013, in which while writing my 30-day novel I'm posting it online as an old-fashioned pulp serial. This page will (hopefully) serve as a convenient entry point for those just coming to the adventure.

Enjoy!

Chapter 1: (Nov. 3)

Chapter 2: (Nov. 6)

Chapter 3: (Nov. 9)

Chapter 4: (Nov. 12)

Chapter 5: (Nov. 15)

Chapter 6: (Nov. 18)

Chapter 7: (Nov. 21)

Chapter 8: (Nov. 24)

Chapter 9: (Nov. 27)

Chapter 10: (Nov. 30)

Who Is The Whisper?(or, My Batsh!t Crazy Stunt for NaNoWriMo)

The Cold War is in full swing, beatniks roam the jazz clubs, and "Tail Gunner Joe" McCarthy has barely faded from the public eye.

Allan “Smithee” Jones, formerly a writer for a celebrity gossip rag, wants to establish himself as a legitimate reporter, but his involvement with an invisible, seemingly omniscient informant almost gets him killed during a political assassination attempt.

Suddenly Jones is embroiled in a government investigation, a criminal conspiracy, and events beyond what a sane man would consider possible. He finds himself asking exactly what kind of nightmare he's fallen into, and most of all... Who is The Whisper?

~ ~ ~
National Novel Writing Month is on the horizon, and once again I will be serving as Birmingham's municipal liaison in addition to writing 50,000 words in 30 days. I've "won" NaNoWriMo five times, crashed n' burned once, and feeling the need for a little writerly rejuvenation, so this year I'm working on a brand new project. The Whisper, a 1950's era pulp thriller, will be structured as a 10-chapter serial with car chases, gunfights, mysteries, twists, and cliffhangers oh-my. Furthermore, I've decided on the following crazy stunt:

I will post a chapter every three days from Nov. 3 to Nov. 30, right here on this blog.

Don't try this at home, kids. In the past I've always had a strict "no one sees my first draft" policy, but this will indeed by barely-edited first draft material - ugly, clunky, awkward, and full of energy just like the great pulps of old. Whether or not it will be readable or coherent, I have no idea. But whatever else it is, I guarantee that it's going to be a train-wreck of sheer fun!

Photo by Emilie Villemagne for openphoto.net

Write Club Flash Fiction Night 2013

Flash Fiction Night 2013 from Hoover Library on Vimeo.

At last, I'm back! And I bring video.

The Hoover Library Write Club's 4th Annual (!) Flash Fiction Night was held on March 19. The video is above, the list of wonderful presenters and their stories are below:

Lindsey Robinson de Sanchez - “Journey of the Ladybug”
Octavia Kuransky - “Stars That See, Stars That Do Not See”(for Marvin Bell)
Carly Koenig - “Firstborn”
Larry Hensley - “Eyes”
Chuck Allen - “Little Girls and Lightning Bugs”
Robert Caldwell - “Gathering at the Bubble”
Robyn Cornell - “I Was Flawless”
Ray Busler - “The Leap”
Rowan Macey - “A Walk on the Moors”
Beth Stewart - “Anticipatory Grief”
R.J. Head - “Down in the Well”
Jared Millet - “The Dragonfly King”

Gadgets & Gizmos: Covers and Contents!

Our friends at Kerlak Publishing / Dark Oak Press just unleashed a double-barrel blast of Steampunk! My own story, "The Peace Machine," appears in volume 4. I see a lot of returning contributors from the first two volumes, and a lot of newcomers as well. A special shout-out to my friend Louise Herring-Jones who also appeared in Summer Gothic . Welcome to the party!
Dreams of Steam III: Gadgets
Gift of Light - Stephen Zimmer
Steampunk Alchemy - Jodi Adamson
The Survivor - M.B. Weston
Heart of Steel - Len Berry
A Steam Bunny Adventure - Sean Taylor
Time and the Wrinkled Prostitute - Brandon Black
The Brass Peregrine - David R. Tabb
The Last Frontier - H. David Blalock
The Constance of Memory - Stacy Tabb
When Edgar Speaks - Alexander S. Brown
The Tower - Laura H. Smith
Steaming Cherry - Tyree Campbell
The Clockwork Gin - Eden Royce
The Great Steamship Race - Rob Cerio
The Soul of the Sky Queen - Patricia M. Rose

Dreams of Steam IV: Gizmos
Miss Alice Grayson and the Specter of Death - Stephen D. Rogers
Commander Tesla and the Zeppelins - Philip R. Cox
Monsters from the ID - Herika R. Raymer
The Book - J.L. Mulvihill
Second Chances - Dwayne Debardelaben
The Peace Machine - Jared Millet
For the Hate of Steam - Missa Dixon
The Clockwork Cockroaches of Thelema - Cindy Macleod
Three Poems - Jerri Hardesty
Kaylana - D. Alan Lewis
Just Like Clockwork - Melinda Lefevers
In Deep - Kirk Hardesty
The Clockwork Gunslingers - Robert J. Krog
Fire on the Mountain - John Hartness
Queen of Steam - Louise Herring-Jones
Estrella Waits - Kathryn Hinds
The Unseen Hand - Allan Gilbreath
Meridian - Kimberly Richardson
The Finder's Keeper - Jason Cordova